


🌟Another Nova🌟

by prettybadmagic



Series: Lady of Sow's End [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Armor Kink, Bathing/Washing, Blood, Blood Kink, Consensual Non-Consent, Dom/sub Undertones, Edgeplay, F/M, Female Ejaculation, Good girl sansa, Leashes, Light BDSM, Master/Pet, Modern Medieval AU, Omorashi, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Praise Kink, Rape Roleplay, Rope Bondage, Sandor's Hands, Sensitive Brute Sandor, Smut, Spanking, Very good girl Sansa, primal
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2021-02-27
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:53:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 48,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28265718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prettybadmagic/pseuds/prettybadmagic
Summary: Westeros, 820 AC.Sansa Stark is a lady by birth. She lost most of her family in the Wildling's War, and has finally escaped the vigilant care of her Uncle Petyr to study music at Oxcross College. Happenstance and a beautifully penned poster of a weirwood lead her to Deepwood Den. There she meets Sandor Clegane, the guitarist in the metal band Heartsbane, a man who keeps the Old Gods and openly denounces the ruling noble class.She shouldn’t go home with him, but she does.Her life in Sow’s End begins that night. Sansa enters a world unlike any court or castle—a seductive world of ancient gods come back to life, dominated by radical self-expression and whirlwind romance. Sansa races against time as she pursues her dreams of making electronic music, and even more far-fetched, combining her two worlds. Prying eyes are everywhere, and her Uncle's vision is very, very sharp.
Relationships: Sandor Clegane/Sansa Stark
Series: Lady of Sow's End [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2070756
Comments: 134
Kudos: 137





	1. A Brilliant Machine

**Author's Note:**

> 🌟 Welcome to Another Nova 🌟
> 
> This story is the sequel to Singing at the Stars. I have been working on it since August, after receiving so many requests to continue. It is fully drafted with 20 chapters and a word count of over 100k. I spent an embarrassing amount of time and energy on this project, and I really hope it comes through. I love her. Words cannot describe how excited I am to finally share her with y'all. I plan on releasing one chapter per week. For updates and a lil bonus content, you can follow me on Twitter [@_prettybadmagic](https://twitter.com/_prettybadmagic?lang=en), where I am sure to be chirping. 
> 
> Disclaimer time! This story will take you down the kink rabbit hole. It features the Hungriest Hound and the most Snackable Sansa. This will not be a depiction of a perfect sexual relationship. Tags will be updated as necessary and will contain spoilers. I will spare very little, so, be warned. It gets wild. It gets wet.
> 
> Each chapter will have an inspo track. I’ve made [this playlist](https://youtube.com/playlist?list=PLw1Te7q-P7HV-NKp1D64AjehKrjxAk36O) to incorporate these songs and others that capture the story’s mood; I’ll be adding a new track each week. Re: mood, the banners for this story are graciously done by puppyspit! A million thanks for your help ❤️
> 
> There’s so much more I could say, but I’ll just say this: if you want a story to jerk off and cry to, this is it. This story is about intimacy, and intimacy is nothing short of terrifying. 
> 
> 🌟 Enjoy 🌟

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sandor has Sansa over for dinner.
> 
> Chapter track: [Sylvan Esso - Jaime's Song](https://youtu.be/fWn0jJu-pyU)

Sansa tugged at the hem of her dress and adjusted her collar. She wasn't ready to knock, not yet. She fretted instead. 

_He likes me_ , she told herself. _He wants me here._

Yet she struggled to recall anything they had talked about. When she pictured him in her mind's eye, she saw his scars, his tattoos, _his hands_. On his guitar, yes, but mostly on her. All over her, the way she wanted them all night. Soft on her breasts, warm and powerful inside her, and on her throat—

Oh, Seven forbid, she couldn't think of that now. Not unless she wanted to turn into a puddle at Sandor's doorstep. Fed up with herself, she knocked. 

Her knuckles had barely grazed oak before a loud howl rang out, followed by an even louder shout, and then the door jerked open. Sandor filled its frame and loomed tall. He looked very handsome tonight, with his dark hair combed and sleek to his shoulders, and his scruff shaved to a soft shadow. He wore a faded black t-shirt with the word _Oathkeeper_ across his chest in a spidery script, tucked into a pair of green military-issue pants that tapered at his boots. 

_His boots._

She certainly hadn't forgotten them. 

"You're early, little bird," Sandor greeted. Sansa's eyes shot up, and he gave her a teasing grin. "But I'll let you inside." 

She had only taken one step across the threshold before the door slammed shut behind her, and Sandor shoved her up against it. She squeaked in surprise, but the sound got swallowed up by a kiss. A hungry kiss. Sandor clasped her chin and cupped her backside, forcefully enough that her toes left the ground. 

In truth, his fierce hold kept her from melting to the floor. His tongue tasted the same as last time, of dark ale and herbal smoke, and it made Sansa feel the same, warm at her center and slick between her legs. _That didn't take long_ , she thought, smiling against his mouth. She had remembered him correctly. 

When Sandor had his fill, he set her gently back down. 

"You're a pretty little thing tonight, aren't you?" he said, toying with a loose lock of her hair. "But you didn't save me anything to unwrap." 

Sansa blushed. She had only braided the top half of her curls, leaving the rest to tumble down to her hips, mostly because she wanted to tempt Sandor. His hands were busy on her, one stroking her hair, the other fingering the hem of her dress, which fell scantily to her mid-thigh.

"I like this, too." 

"I made it myself," Sansa replied. 

She loved this dress—her black pinafore—and she especially loved pairing it with her favorite blouse, the white one with a big round collar and billowing sleeves that came in at her wrists with silk ribbons. It was her prettiest outfit. She had chosen it to tempt Sandor, too. Bright desire played out across his face, and she smiled. All her fretting had been a waste of time. 

"Let's go eat," he said, turning down the corridor. "I'm goddamn starving." 

The rich scent of roast meat and spice wafted from the kitchen. It was a cramped space, galley style, with shabby appliances and countertops lining one wall and a small table against the wall opposite. An old kerosene lamp illuminated the modest table setting: a great big ceramic crock, one wine glass, and two chipped plates. Sandor ushered Sansa to her seat with a commanding palm. 

"It's not much," he said, rummaging through the fridge barely three feet away. "Shepherd's pie, with a lot more spice. Can't tolerate that bland shit. I'd rather eat my own boots."

"Well, it smells wonderful," Sansa hummed. 

"Aye, that'd be the garlic." Sandor pivoted back to the table, a brown glass bottle in hand. "This is all I've got. You like dark beer?" 

"Um—" _Not really_. She smiled anyway. "Sure, I'd love some." 

He fell in across from her and dumped a fizzy slug of black liquid into the wine glass, then nudged it in her direction. Sansa eyed it suspiciously but took a courteous sip. It wasn't horrible—it almost tasted like chocolate. She took another, bigger sip. She'd need it. 

Sandor dished out the pie, a much too big scoop for Sansa, and an ungodly portion for himself. He must really have been starving. He shovelled massive bites into his mouth and stopped only to gulp ale directly from the bottle. His open-mouthed mashing was grisly sight, but Sansa ate her own forkful of pie and understood—it was delicious. Creamy potatoes topped tender beef, and all of it swam in a gravy so complex she couldn't pick the flavors apart. She had never known a boy who liked to cook, never mind a boy who could cook well.

 _But Sandor isn't a boy_ , she reminded herself. She had become acquainted with a man. A big man, who knew just how to use his hands. Brashly, Sansa stared at the fork buried in his fist. She wondered just how much pressure it would take before he snapped the metal clean in two. 

"You don't like it," Sandor said, flashing half-chewed beef. 

"No, I—" Sansa glanced to her seemingly untouched plate. "I like it a lot, truly. I'm a slow eater." 

She stopped distracting herself long enough to take a few more bites. All these... _thoughts_ were so unlike her. She had never thought these things of Joffrey, not even of Loras or Harry. But she hadn't been able to come within twenty feet of Sandor before the brazen heat returned to her blood. His welcome kiss didn't help, either. It made Sansa blush just to think about it. 

At least the kissing was easy. What were they supposed to talk of when they weren't swallowing each other's tongues? 

"How—how was your day?" Sansa wished it wasn't the first thing she could think to ask. 

"My day? Nothing special. Work was work, and now I'm here." 

"Work?" 

Sandor let out a bark of a laugh. "Aye, little bird. _Work_. If you're lucky, you'll never have to do it." When he noticed Sansa's frown, he added, "What? Did you think I spent all day making my shitty music?" 

"It's not—" 

"Oh, I know what it is. I'm a dockhand, girl. I moor boats and haul cargo. It's demanding work, but it keeps a roof over my head and food on the table. Can't complain." 

Sandor dumped another load of pie on his plate to keep himself busy. Sansa focused on the murky ale and stewed in their shared silence. She should be able to make friends with anyone, but she had somehow forgotten Sandor's borderline savage manners. _He says anything he likes_ , _no matter how insulting_. 

And the beer was downright gross.

Still, Sansa finished her glass and got rid of the bitter taste with a few mouthfuls of potatoes. She couldn't let herself be as rude as him, and she certainly wouldn't waste all the time and money he'd put into her dinner, simply because her septas rapped her knuckles if she ate too hastily. So she mimicked Sandor's eating as much as she could stomach. 

But by the time he unloaded another serving of ale in her glass, she was through with silence. 

"I like your music," she offered up. "You shouldn't be so harsh on yourself. It's good." 

That earned Sandor's attention. He dropped his fork onto his plate with a clatter and leaned back with his arms crossed. "Is that right?" His tongue worked through his teeth, hunting for scraps for beef. "Might be it's good enough, if the little songbird says so. It keeps me out of trouble, at the very least." 

"Have you played for long?" 

"A few years now. I picked up guitar after the war. Met Gerold, as sorry a knight as I am. It works well enough." Sandor sucked down the rest of the beer and slammed it back onto the table. "Though it's not nearly as fun as killing." 

Sansa blanched—killing? 

But Sandor _grinned_. 

"What, you think I got on the Kingsforce for being merciful?" His eyes shone, wolfish. "No, I was the best of them, little bird. Or the worst, depending whose side you're on. All those bloated lords put me up north so I could cut down weirwoods and wildlings alike. And what fun it was—until it wasn't." 

Sansa didn't have anything to say anymore. He was a savage, plain and simple. She had been bedded by a man who took joy in killing and couldn't even chew properly. What was she thinking? 

Well, she wasn’t. Not about the right things, anyway.

"Oh, don't give me that look, girl. It's your lot that sent me out there to bloody my hands on their behalf. They say the wildlings want to unleash hell on the Seven Kingdoms, but that's a load of horseshit. Your lords want that sweet northern oil, and they're afraid. Afraid free folk are gonna make free folk out of everyone. No more lords, no more titles, no more slaving away for piss wages. Sure, the king may have them beat for now, but it's only a matter of time. People 'round here are catching on. Might be that I start killing again, but on the right side this time." 

Sandor snatched up Sansa's glass and drained it. Ale dripped through the gaps in his cheek and he swiped at it with the back of his palm. Then he turned his cutting eyes back to her. "The little bird is frightened." 

"No, I—" but she couldn't get the rest out. She was confused. First he delighted in killing the free folk, but then he said he would rather be on their side. Sansa would be, too. 

Her father was. 

Until Joffrey's family sent him to die. 

"I agree with you," she said at last. "I don't think we should have fought the free folk. I wish we hadn't. My family—" It always hurt to say it out loud. _My family._ She didn't have one, not anymore. Sansa caught her trembling lip with a bite. 

Oh, this was the worst. Had she really come all this way just to cry at the dinner table? But when the first tear fell, a rough thumb brushed it away. 

“How many of them are gone?” Sandor asked, newly gentle. 

"All of them,” Sansa whispered to her plate. “Except for me and my sister." 

"The Day of Red Snow?" 

Sansa meekly nodded, and Sandor picked her face up. “I’m sorry to hear that, little bird.” He used a garlicky smelling kerchief to get rid of the rest of her tears. “I know how it feels. I lost my family, too.” 

“You did?” Somehow it didn’t occur to Sansa that Sandor had anyone but Gregor. “H-how?” 

Sandor sighed and dropped his fist to the table, just beside Sansa’s plate. “Elinor drowned. Mom offed herself after that. Dad got done in by wildcat, hunting, maybe. That’s Gregor’s tale, anyway.” 

Sansa traced Sandor’s knuckles, which grew white beneath his inked runes. He opened up for her, and she put her palm in his. “Did you love them?” she asked. 

“I loved them a lot, little bird. My mom and sister the most.” 

“I’m sorry,” Sansa said. “I’m really sorry.” 

“It’s alright. It’s been long enough to forget, mostly.” Sandor squeezed her hand hard, maybe to cheer her up, or maybe to get her to look at him. It did both. He didn’t seem so mean anymore, so eager to spill blood. He looked tired, his skin lined and his good eye shadowed. Worn out from so many years of battle. “But I’ve got something to remember them by. When my brother got himself killed, I earned the family keep.” 

Sandor smiled, and then talking to him became much easier. They got to hold hands and Sansa learned about his keep, tucked away in the mountains to the east. He grew up there with the sister he loved, Elinor. He loved his mother too, because she had a pretty singing voice and never struck him. The years hadn't been kind to his keep, though. No one had lived there for almost two decades, so everything sagged and tilted. He would fix it up, someday. When he had the money. When he didn't have to spend every day lugging around the cargo of much richer men. 

He didn’t pry about Sansa’s family, which was good, because she certainly would have cried again. She hated that day, the worst day of her life. Sandor filled the silence instead. 

Sansa had forgotten a lot of things about him, and one thing in particular. It was the feeling she got when he shared his stories—that they were stowed in books on high shelves and rarely referenced. That something about Sansa’s hand in his could pull them down. 

Or maybe it was the ale that made everything soft and slow. Sandor wasn't as harsh as he was honest. He didn’t hide behind courtesy even when he ought to. Sansa didn’t know anyone else like him. He was all rough edges, yet somehow he wielded his words as precisely as Valyrian steel. When he wanted them to sting, they did. 

And other times, like now, they were warm. Warm as starlight, if you could ever get close enough.

Eventually, the lamp burned low and Sandor pushed up from the table. He narrowed his eyes at Sansa's half-full plate when he went to collect it. 

"You eat like a little bird," he said down to her. 

Sansa cocked a playful brow. "And you eat like a great big hound." 

Sandor bent low and heaved a cloud of black ale breath into her face. "Careful, girl," he growled. "This hound is still hungry." 

Sansa blushed, and Sandor retreated, smirking. He whistled for Stranger, and the bloodhound came loping into the kitchen to demolish all of Sansa's leftovers. When Sandor finished dumping the rest of the dishes into the sink, he beckoned Sansa with a tick of his head. 

"Come, little bird. It's time to smoke." 

They settled on the couch together. Sansa pulled off her boots and curled up on her knees while Sandor rolled a joint. This one was much bigger than the one they shared last time, the brown square of paper full to bursting. Sandor fit everything in, then he lit one end and pulled hard enough to expose a full inch of bright orange ember. After a bit of coughing and flicking off the ash, he passed the joint to Sansa. 

_This again._ She didn't want to cough, so she took the tiniest breath possible. Only when the smoke had lingered in her mouth for a good few seconds did she try to bring it all the way down into her lungs. She ended up coughing anyway. 

"Why do you even like this stuff?" she choked out. "It feels horrible." 

"There's worse things out there than a little bit of coughing. Believe that." 

He took back the joint and finished it off in three huge puffs. A cloud of smoke dirtied the air, but the rest of his living room was clean enough. The dishes were gone, his books straightened, and all his trash had found its way to the waste basket. He had swept up the weathered wooden floors, too. 

Sansa smiled at the thought of him tidying up in her honor—it meant he cared. 

"If I recall correctly," Sandor said, twisting a blackened stub in the ashtray. "You owe me a song." 

Sansa had wondered when he was going to ask. She hopped up from the couch and went to retrieve her backpack, which she had deposited haphazardly at the door. 

"I recorded it," she explained, one hand buried inside her bag. She pulled out a cassette and presented it to Sandor. "My Minimarq—I didn't know if I should bring it, with the train and all. So I just made a tape." 

"Smart girl." 

Sandor took the cassette over to the stereo while Sansa dropped back down on the sofa. She smoothed her palms over her dress, then wove her fingers together in her lap. "It's not very good," she blurted before she could think twice. 

Sandor turned to give her a skeptical look. 

"I mean—I didn't have much time to practice it. So don't expect much, is all." 

But Sandor only grunted. The tape clicked into place, then the speakers came crackling to life. Sansa grimaced as soon as the first machine-made notes swirled through the air. The song had sounded half decent when she was alone in the practice room. But now, each beep and blip grated her ears like broken glass. 

She pointedly did not look at Sandor when he fell back down next to her, just in time for her voice to spill out from the speakers. That was even worse than the synthesizer, so tinny and breathy Sansa almost wanted to cup her hands over her ears. 

But as soon as the chorus kicked in, Sandor swallowed up her hands with one of his. Then her song didn't sound so terrible. Sansa recalled just how she had felt making it, like a weightless mote of dust floating in a starry sky. Free, happy, unbound from obligation and expectation. Like she was her own person. She felt the same when she stole away to King's Landing and wasted an afternoon at Danny's Record Shop. Or when she holed up with her Minimarq for hours on end. Or when she sat here, next to the Hound. 

Eventually the song fizzled into staticky silence. Neither of them spoke. Sandor swept his thumb along Sansa's knuckles, over and over again, until she was certain he'd rub them raw. The quiet became too much. 

"Was it any good?" 

Sandor exhaled with enough power to knock down a wall. "Sansa…." He squeezed her hands, and she knew she ought to look at him. His eyes sparkled like steel, but with no sharpness. "It was beautiful." 

"R-really? You liked it?" 

"Little bird," he answered, in that teasing way of this. "I loved it. You're better than good. You're extraordinary, something else entirely. Fuck." He ran his free hand through his hair, sweeping it over his scars. "You could get signed with this, you know. If you make more like it, your pretty voice and all that synth work. There's nothing else that comes even close to this good. There's a label downtown—" 

"Sevenstreams? You think I could get signed with Sevenstreams?" 

Sandor smiled. "I'm certain." He cupped Sansa's face and ran his thumb along her cheekbone, but he saw something in her that made his smile fade. "I don't know why you're wasting your time with me. You could have everything. That recording is sharp as shit—whatever studio your little college has will do scores better than what my lot can. You should spend your time up there." 

"You don't want me here?" 

"No, I—" Sandor’s mouth twitched at the corner. "I don't _deserve_ to have you here. Not a girl so talented, and connected, and far too pretty. You can do better. There's much better company for you than an old dog like me." 

"Oh." Sansa pulled in her lower lip. "Is that why it took you a half moon to call?" 

"Or maybe that’s why you left my bed in the middle of the night." 

They locked eyes, each of them daring the other to make the next move. Sandor had chosen to make it sting. A noble girl had no business with a dockhand in Sow's End—Sansa knew this. But titles were no better than shackles, and she was sick of being trapped. 

So she yielded. 

"I like you, Sandor. I like you a lot." 

That did him in. He plucked her by the thigh and towed her onto his lap. "The little bird likes me…." His hands slid up her legs, just beneath the hem of her dress. "Tell me, what is there to like?" 

A blush crept up Sansa's neck—she knew this position from last time. All the accompanying butterflies filled up her belly, and warmth gathered between her legs. He wanted to play with her. 

She would play, too. 

"I like that you're honest," she confessed. 

"Is that so?" 

Sansa nodded. "And I like—I like that you don't mince words. I don't know many people who speak their mind, not truly." 

Sandor replied with a grunt. His hands were busy under her dress, sizing up her thighs, kneading them like soft dough. Each roll of his fingers brought them closer to Sansa's center. She squirmed; he moved further up, until he cupped her buttocks from beneath, his fingers teasing either side of her panty line.

"What else?" he rasped. 

"I think you're funny," Sansa got out, her breath shallow. 

"I'm funny, is it? You seem to do a lot more blushing than giggling when I'm around." 

Sandor dug his fingernails into Sansa's skin to force a whimper from her lips. That made him grin wide enough to show all his teeth. _Fangs_ , Sansa corrected. _He's hungry._ His eyes had that particular glint to them, the one that said _you're mine_.

"You're always teasing me," Sansa said in a near whine. "B-but I like it." 

"You like it," he repeated. "You like when I tease you?" 

She nodded. A finger swiped along the lace that barely suspended her wetness. It lingered where her pulse raged most urgently, the promise of a gift. But Sandor would want her words in exchange, so she said, “I like your hands, too. I missed them." 

"Do you want my hands, little bird?" 

"Yes, please.” 

Sandor slid her sodden underwear aside, then trailed his fingertips across Sansa's swollen skin. A growl rumbled up from the back of his throat. "Messy bird. How did you get so wet?" 

But she couldn't answer him. His hands worked their magic on her again, rough fingers hunting for her pulse. He knew the perfect places to touch. He gave her clit a quick brush, then a firmer press that sent a shock up her spine. She had barely recovered when his finger sunk inside her, restless. It wound against her walls then hooked into her favorite spot. 

Then her spine was useless—she thrust out her hands to catch herself on Sandor's rigid chest. 

"Did you dream of this?" he rasped, nipping at her ear. "Do you think of me when you put a hand down those pretty little panties?" 

Sansa whimpered, but Sandor took away his finger as punishment. He glared. 

_How does he know?_

Sansa scarcely ever touched herself—her septas had made her so afraid. A disgrace to the Maiden, they called it. Boys never wanted a girl who plucked her flower herself. It was a sin. 

But Sansa had caved. She couldn't resist. Two days ago, when Jeyne was in class, Sansa had gotten so hot, so sticky, that she buried herself in the covers and let her fingers roam. They were useless compared to Sandor's, but they were better than nothing. And she did picture Sandor. She thought of bigger things than her own hand. She thought of Sandor's arms around her, and the way he called her _good girl_. It didn't take long for her to finish. 

It was the first time she had done it herself. 

"I did," she finally whispered. "Is that—is that bad?" 

"Of course not, little bird." 

He assured her with the swirl of his finger around her clit, then he dropped lower to circle her slick entrance. Sansa slumped onto his chest. When she rested her forehead on Sandor's t-shirt, she noticed something else she liked. The big something. 

It was extra big now, trapped in deep-green cotton confines. 

"I missed him too," Sansa mumbled. 

"What's that?" 

When Sansa didn't answer straight away, Sandor thrust two thick fingers inside of her. She winced and her back arched, forcing her to meet his eye. 

"Say it," he hissed. 

"I missed your cock," Sansa whined. She shifted uncomfortably on Sandor's lap, but only ground herself deeper against his hand. 

Sandor grinned. "Be a good little bird, and take him out to play." 

Sansa's fingers turned to thumbs as she fumbled with his heavy silver belt buckle, then tugged down his zipper. He was bigger than extra big. He was a giant. An angry, red giant. Sansa swallowed. Had she really put the whole thing inside her? And what did it even want? 

It stirred of its own accord, prowling at Sandor's abdomen. When Sansa trailed a finger down a swollen vein, it lunged, and she snapped her hand back. 

"Spit," Sandor rasped. 

Sansa's eyes shot up. Spit? Where? 

Ladies didn't spit. 

But it wasn't a suggestion. Sandor took his hand from inside her and caught her wrist. He held her palm in front of her mouth, his fingers glistening. "Spit," he said again. 

So Sansa filled up her mouth and let her spit dribble into her palm. Sandor put her hand on him, right at the tip, and it glided down. 

"That's a good girl," he groaned. "Just like that." 

The spit wasn't so gross once it was on him, and Sansa remembered how to play. If she squeezed him just tight enough, or swept a finger along his favorite ridge, Sandor would give her his noises in return—rough grunts and heavy breathing, like he'd just run a hunt in the woods. 

"You're so good with your hands," he told her. He looked down on her with low-lidded eyes. "But you know what would be even better?" 

"What?" Sansa asked. 

"If you rode me." 

"R-rode?" 

"What's that look for? You've never ridden a man before?" 

Sansa cheeks went hot. Ridden a man? She'd only had sex _twice_. And one of those times wasn't any good at all. She sighed. She needed to be honest. He would find out, anyway. 

"Sandor, don't laugh, but—I only slept with Joffrey once. And I didn't—I didn't _ride_ him." 

For some reason, that made Sandor's manhood jump in her grip. He didn't laugh though, he just gave her that strained, hungry look of his. "I'll show you, little bird," he said. "You'll do great at it, I'm certain. We'll take it slow. How does that sound?" 

"Good," Sansa answered. "I'll be good." 

Sandor smiled. "Of course you will." 

He didn't bother taking off Sansa's underwear. He tugged them aside, lifted her buttocks to line her up, and sunk the first few inches of his length inside her. Just enough for Sansa to remember all the brightness in her blood, and the crackle of her nerves where his pulse throbbed against hers. 

Gravity helped them this time. Sansa slid lower onto him, guided by Sandor's hands on her hips, until he hit her very end. He let out a gruff, "Good girl," as the giant inside her beat against her walls and stretched her to fullness. Sansa remembered this part, too. She remembered she could fit him all. When she showed Sandor her smile, he pulled her up to the tip of him, then dropped her right back down. Sansa gasped and clutched at Sandor's swollen biceps. It took her a few long seconds to decide she hadn't been lanced straight through her spine, but as soon as her breath steadied Sandor did it again. 

And again. 

And again. 

He eased her up and down by the hips, slow, but deep. So deep he discovered new corners of her wetness, corners that ached when he hit them, but craved his warmth the second it disappeared. Sansa _needed_ that warmth, so she found her own rhythm. She understood what it meant it to ride. 

Weirdly, it was like being in the saddle. She had ridden horses almost as soon as she could walk. She had spent hours, days, months on horseback. She had even been president of the Equestrian Club at the Sevenschool. 

And this, this was not so different. 

Sansa rolled her hips to win as much of Sandor as she wanted. Up here, she could choose where to put him, whichever spot needed the most attention. She also chose their speed. Sandor liked it fast, of course, but he also liked when Sansa ground all the way down, pushing his entire length inside of her. If she left him there, his pulse would rage inside her, and his face would twist up like he smelled something sour. 

Sansa loved that face. But when Sandor caught her smirking at him, his brow sunk low and his eyes turned mean. "Watch it," he warned. 

But Sansa was in control now. She wound her hips in a slow circle, savoring the feel of his heat against her walls. 

That got in her trouble. 

Sandor sunk his hands into Sansa's buttocks and shot up to standing, with her legs draped over his forearms and dangling past his elbows. She peeped like a little bird as her back collided with a bookshelf, but Sandor paid her no mind. He rammed his length inside her, so ferociously that each thrust jostled books and sent scraps of paper swirling to the floor. He was making a meal of her—his mouth landed on her neck to deliver more of those biting kisses, the kind that hurt, but in a good way. Then he kissed along her jaw to her chin, and finally his lips found hers. He thrust his tongue inside her. It tangled up with hers and swiped along her teeth, scouting every corner of her mouth. He bit at her lower lip and dragged it until she let out a yelp. 

Her noises made him smirk, always. 

"You look so pretty on my cock, don't you?" 

Sansa whimpered in response. He was a brutish giant, but he was sweet. He wanted her to feel good as he pounded inside her, stuffing her belly to fullness and stealing all her dew. And Sansa did feel good—her insides ached. Just like last time, heat pooled at her center and simmered like molten gold.

Sansa's hands fluttered around Sandor as he ground her spine against the shelves. She tried to keep hold of his shoulders, then his neck, but she finally settled on his cheeks. She cupped them gently enough to remind Sandor how small she was. To let him know how easily he could send her to the ceiling. 

Sandor dropped his forehead to hers. His smoky breath spilled onto Sansa's face and became her own. "I missed you, little bird," he rasped into their air. "I think about you every day." 

"I m-missed you too," Sansa sputtered in between thrusts. She stroked his cheekbones with her thumbs, her reassurance. 

It was true. She liked being bedded by him. She liked when he was rough with her, at the table, or now, plunging into her with a cock that by all means shouldn't fit. It only fit because she wanted him there. She let Sandor stretch her to her absolute limit, because she knew he would never hurt her. 

He had given a silent vow. He was her knight. 

Sansa's pulse flared along Sandor's. Her heat teetered on the brink of bursting. She knew this feeling, and she knew what happened next. 

She needed to use her manners. 

"S-Sandor?" 

"What is it?" 

"Can I come, please?" 

A deep growl worked its way up from Sandor's belly, but he spoke softly. "Of course, little bird. You can come." 

Hearing the word crest his lips sent Sansa right over the edge. The whole world disappeared except for heartbeat, the one between her legs, and the one tucked behind her ribs. All her warmth collapsed, and swirled, and danced as it spooled from her center. Without Sandor holding her up, she would have soaked straight through the floorboards. 

He only managed two more strokes before he let out a strained, "Fuck," and pulled out from her. His seed gushed out onto the front of Sansa's underwear, warm and sticky. They stayed close for a few minutes, their foreheads pressed together as they drank in each other's ragged breath. With one knee propping up Sansa's buttocks, Sandor pulled an arm back. He scooped up his mess with a finger, and brought it to her lips. 

"Open up, little bird." 

Sansa gave him a wide-eyed stare, but she did as she was told. She sucked the stickiness from Sandor's finger as best she could, then swallowed. It did not taste good. As soon as Sansa's mouth was empty she stuck out her tongue. "Yuck," she whined. 

Sandor laughed. "Better that hole than the other." 

Sansa pouted some more, but that only made him laugh harder. He was probably right—even girls as inexperienced as Sansa knew what happened when a man planted his seed. She would have to be totally mad to let herself be sowed by Sandor, a man she’d known for less than a moon entire. 

Sansa reached out and grasped the weirwood pendant at his neck. _Yes,_ she assured herself. _It would be utter madness._ She could scarcely raise a bastard child in her dormitory. But Sandor was handsome, and strong, and his children wouldn't have any scars. 

They hadn't known each other for long, but he was no stranger. 

"I want to learn about the Old Gods," she found herself saying. The ruby eye of the weirwood dug into the meat of her palm, but she only squeezed harder. "Will you teach me?" 

Sandor looked down at her, soft and sweet, like he had at the dinner table. "I'll show you, little bird. I'll take you out the keep someday." 

Sansa smiled. "I'd love that," she told him. But she shelved that thought. She had thought of something else, something much more pressing. 

"Sandor?" 

"Mm." 

"I have to get back. I have my harp practical tomorrow, and I've barely practiced." 

Sandor grunted and dropped Sansa back to the ground. Her knees weren't quite functional, so she grasped at Sandor's forearms as he adjusted himself. Then he helped Sansa smooth out her dress, and he even tucked a few locks of hair back into place. He looked at her for a minute, eyes glassy, his half-burnt lips drawn tight. They twitched, then he turned away. 

"I'll go get my helmet," he said as he disappeared down the corridor. Barely audible, he grumbled, "Though I would rather have you warm my bed." 

Sansa should have guessed he rode a motorcycle, a beaten up Courser from at least a decade prior. Even so, when he led her down the narrow alley beside his building and pulled a dark canvas cover off it, Sansa balked. 

Sandor didn't pay her any mind. He stuck his helmet on her head, a big black thing shaped to look like a snarling dog, and then he put her in a big leather jacket. She liked the jacket, because it smelled exactly like him—of hempweed and clove. The scent distracted her long enough for Sandor to spur his mount into action. 

"Hop on, little bird." 

"Um…" 

Was there even room for her? Sansa approached the growling beast, her chest tight with fear. She had never ridden on a motorcycle before. They were dangerous, or so Father said. But Sansa had practiced her riding tonight, so she gathered her courage with one big inhale, and hoisted herself onto the small patch of seat behind Sandor. 

She coiled her arms around his middle tight as she could and pressed her face into his t-shirt. 

"Ready?" he called behind him. 

She nodded against his back, and they were off. 

Father was wrong. 

Riding on Sandor's motorcycle was fun. They zoomed down the dark highway like a shooting star. Others stars twinkled on the road, but they were the fastest, cutting through the sky simply because they could. 

Sansa's heart thudded against Sandor's as they went, and she thought of rubies again, of sparkling red eyes that knew too much—the eyes of the Gods. The Seven knew too much. They frowned down on Sansa all her life, waiting for her to make a mistake to unleash their wrath. They would be frowning now, wondering why a maiden should surrender herself to a stranger. 

But what of the Old Gods? 

The eye of a weirwood saw everything and more, and Sansa couldn't shake the feeling that they were here now. That the heart tree was her heart, and Sandor's heart, and they were both red-hot rubies, glowing together, beating together, simply because they could. There were no maidens and strangers, just Sansa and Sandor. 

Unlikely companions, but companions nonetheless. 

For the first time, in a very long time, Sansa felt as though the Gods were smiling on her. 

So she smiled, too. And she knit her fingers even tighter together to hold Sandor that much closer, and breathed him in as deep as she could, until her lungs were full of smoke and spice. He was as precious as a ruby. She wanted to keep him. She wanted him close. 

The motorcycle sputtered to stop when they reached Oxcross. When Sandor asked where she needed to go, she told him the train station would be fine. A neutral ground, with fewer curious eyes. When they arrived, Sansa dropped clumsily from the motorcycle. She fixed her dress while Sandor peeled off his jacket and plucked the helmet from her head. He tucked it in the crook of his arm and looked softly down at her. 

"I'll see you again?" Sansa asked, stepping close enough to feel his breath on her skin. 

"I've got a show this weekend, Smithsday. At the Den." 

"And I can come?" 

"I can't stop you," Sandor said. He smirked at her, grey eyes gleaming bright. "But I want you there." He put a kiss on the crown of her head, then revved up his mount. "See you then, little bird." 

And then he was gone. 

Sansa smoothed her hand over the spot where his lips had just been and lingered for a just a minute longer. _I want you there._ Good. She would be counting down the seconds until she could feel his arms around her again. 

Sansa hurried from the station to campus. It was late, all of the girls gone to bed. The only activity came from the campus watchmen, patrolling the walkways between stretches of manicured lawn and ancient stone buildings. 

Sansa's dorm, Hetherspoon Hall, was as dark and quiet as all of campus, the common room quite abandoned. Sansa slipped down the corridor to her room. Jeyne was fast asleep, so Sansa got dressed for bed in the moonlight, tugging on a nightgown, keeping her sticky underwear, a reminder of her sweet evening. She had only just slid beneath the covers when Jeyne's sleep-tinged voice broke through the silence. 

"How did it go?" 

"Good," Sansa breathed. "Did anyone notice?" 

Jeyne shook her head.

"Well, good night, then," Sansa said, turning towards the wall. She shut her eyes, and had only a brief moment of peace before another whisper crept through the dark. 

"Be careful, Sansa," was all Jeyne said. _He'll find out sooner or later_ , was what she meant. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! 
> 
> A couple notes on Sansa's song - it's pretty much supposed to be Jaime's Song, or something similar. Obviously the production on it is way more modern, lol, but the idea is that it's Sansa's voice layered with simple and enchanting synth melody. A song to careen off the highway to, imo. Other tracks like Lorde's Ribs or Weyes Blood's Movies make me feel the same. You can kinda imagine the vibe. This song will keep coming up, so I wanted to explain it a little further. 
> 
> The second chapter, Precious Possession, is coming next week! 'Til then!


	2. Precious Possession

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa spends an evening in Sow's End.
> 
> Chapter track: [Anna Wise - Precious Possession](https://youtu.be/zVs20YmfQKE)

The train was late. 

Sansa scurried from Butcher's Station down the darkness of Hock Street, as fast as she could in her too-tight jeans. They were thick black denim that cinched at her waist and made sitting down quite the endeavor. They were made for working women. 

Uncle Petyr would hate them. 

He would especially hate that Sansa paired them with the light blue cardigan her mother had knit for her a decade ago, snug on her chest and barely long enough to hit her belt, with only a bra underneath. He would like the bra, of course, but Sansa didn't linger on the thought. 

She turned the corner to Sallow Street and bustled inside the Den, cheeks flushed and lungs ablaze. The doorman must have remembered her, because he waved her on with nothing more but a toothy smile. An eclectic-as-ever crowd had already gathered inside and filled the room with a noxious cloud of smoke, but the stage sat empty. _Thank goodness._

Sansa spent the entire train ride in a panic, her belly rotten at the prospect of missing any part of Sandor's show. What would he think of her then? 

"Hey, it's the Hound's girl!" 

A hand grabbed Sansa's shoulder, and she turned to see Wylla, red cheeks made redder by her green curls, her arm slung around the waist of a skinny brunette. "How did it go? I've never seen that grump so smitten in my fucking life." Wylla tipped her head back and laughed, jostling ale out of the tankard she held loose in her fist. "Gods, is he as big as they say? You can be honest with me—swear on my life I won't tell a soul." 

"Um—" There was Sansa's blush, right on cue. Was she the Hound's girl? And of course he was big, anyone could see that. But when Wylla stuck out her hands and started pantomiming measurements, Sansa understood. 

She was talking about _him_.

Were they allowed to talk about things like this? In public? 

But both Wylla and her pretty friend were smiling so wide that surely it would be rude not to answer. So Sansa used her hands to give her best estimate—eight inches was too short, and a foot, well, could he truly be a foot long? 

She settled for an approximate ten. Wylla clapped a hand to her mouth, and half her ale jumped to the ground. "Seven fucking hells, how are you walking?" 

"I could _never_ ," said the brunette. 

Sansa stood there, dumbstruck and hot-faced. _People know_. _They know what he's done to me._

"Oh, don't be so prude—um, remind me of your name?" 

"Sansa." 

"No, your _family_ name." 

_Not this again._ But she courteously answered, "Stark." 

Wylla laughed at that, like she apparently did to everything. "Another noble girl from the North gone rogue." She put her sticky mug against Sansa's fresh-pressed sweater and leaned in close. "I'm a Manderly." 

Sansa didn't have time to reply—the torches went dark. She needed to be up front to see Sandor play and fast, but she only managed two steps before Wylla caught her hand. 

"Archer is having people over at his place after the show. You should come—I _need_ to know how you ended up on this side of town." 

Sansa smiled and put out a gracious, "I'd be delighted," before surrendering herself to the crowd. She had only just nudged her way to the very front, so close to the stage that its creaky beams sunk into the tops of her thighs, when two cloaked men came out with torches. 

They repeated the same ritual as before. They chanted in the Old Tongue, lit heavy bronze candelabras, and finally, they cast their dark cloaks aside. 

Sansa's jaw fell as if she were seeing Sandor for the first time.

The chainmail, the dark tunic stretched by all his muscles, and his boots, Seven forbid. They were _right there_. Sansa could touch them if she were half so bold. Instead she stood stock still, wondering how on earth she knew a man so handsome, and so damn tall. 

Not to mention talented _._

He played the guitar beautifully—he truly didn't give himself enough credit. Sansa's hands could work as fast on the piano, but on the lute? Never. His fingers went at unimaginable speed, putting out all those darkly enchanting melodies as if they were nothing. 

Sansa knew how to dance this time. Or thrash, rather. She leapt up and down, she threw her plaits wherever she willed, and she certainly made use of her elbows. It didn't take long for her to disappear into the music. She was a princess again, gowned in emerald velvet, decorated in gold. 

She was in a castle—Winterfell—stumbling through the great white Godswood. An enormous weirwood loomed over the others, its trunk thick as five grown men, a sorrowful face slick with red sap. Sansa fell to her knees before it, landing softly in fresh snow. 

She prayed. 

_I've missed you_ , she told the tree. _I want to come home. Please, please, please._

But nothing lasts, especially not weirwoods. The red eyes became berries, tangled around a deep brown trunk. An oak tree. _No_ , Sansa thought. _The Gods aren't here. I need to go North._ But when the oak tree disappeared, a statue of a weeping woman took its place. When her stone eyes peeled up, she wore Sansa's face. 

That sent Sansa staggering back to the Den. She came to with sweat trickling from her temples and her chest threatening to burst the buttons on her cardigan with each shuddering breath. The first thing she saw was Sandor, looking down at her. 

He looked at her like that a lot, Sansa realized, with shining eyes and coarse lips held tight. It was a sad look. A _stripped_ _down to her bones_ look. 

Like maybe she wasn't even real. 

Sansa smiled up at him, a wordless, _I'm here; I'm real,_ but Sandor glanced quickly away. 

After they finished and the torches came blazing back to life, Sansa idled by the ratty velvet curtain that separated the backstage area. Darkstar was the first to emerge. His purple eyes narrowed when he noticed Sansa, and he stepped close, propping his arm on the wall just beside her head. 

"Who are you waiting for, sweetling?" 

He was a lean man, taller than Sansa, with frightfully smooth skin and silky white hair. His breath fell down on her smelling strongly of citrus. 

Sansa swallowed it all down, accidentally. 

"Get off the girl, Gerold." 

_Sandor._ He pried Darkstar away by the shoulder, and the drummer put his hands up in surrender. Still, his thin lips pulled to a smirk. "So this is the one, is it? The little bird?" 

"Aye, she's the one," Sandor answered, a paltry introduction. 

"My name is Sansa," she finished for him. She offered up her hand. 

"Darkstar."

He kissed her gently, cold lips lingering, and suddenly his name made perfect sense. His dark purple eyes shone like amethyst, and cut like them, too. They clung to Sansa, _everywhere_. 

She swallowed, hard. 

"You're making the girl nervous." Sandor tore away Darkstar's hand and gave him a shove. "Go put those pretty eyes of yours on someone else." 

He staggered back a step and dipped into a bow. "Enchanted, Lady Stark," he said. With a sly glance to Sandor he added, "And by the way, I absolutely adored your tape." 

Quick as a shadow, he was gone. 

Sandor closed in. One step had Sansa backed against the stone wall, craning her neck to look at him. His hand wandered down her plait, then found rest at her waist. 

"Did you really show him my song?" Sansa whispered. 

"I did," Sandor replied. "I'm proud of you, little bird. I want to show you off." He ran his thumb up and down the curve of Sansa's breast, and his breath got all shallow. "What are you playing at with this sweater?" He dropped lower, so that his dark hair tickled her cheeks. "So soft and tight. You have no idea how pretty your tits looked bouncing up and down out on the floor. I could take you right here and now without thinking twice, you know that?" 

Sansa's knees wobbled, and she latched onto Sandor's mail to stay upright. "Sandor," she whined, sounding just as pitiful as she felt. "Not here, please." 

"Fine," Sandor grunted. He slid a finger into her waistband and tugged her so that his lips lined up with her ear. "But only because you're in these tight little jeans. Let's get out of here before my cock turns blue, or you'll damn well force me to rip them off of you." 

He turned to leave, but Sansa's hand was still tangled up in his mail. "Wait," she said. 

"Wait what?" 

"There's a party—or, a get together—or something. At um—Archer's place. Wylla invited me." 

The look Sandor gave her was one of pure, unfettered anguish. 

A few dozen pretty pleases and a five minute walk later, they arrived at Archer's doorstep. 

It _was_ a doorstep of sorts, down a steep flight of crumbling stone steps into a cramped landing that barely fit the two of them together. Metal raged beyond the sturdy oak door. Sandor exhaled, or maybe just groaned, then pushed Sansa inside. 

Gods, it was smoky. A haze of hempweed stuck in the room, a big open space scattered with threadbare sofas and piles of stained cushions. Bright red neon signs and fluorescent tubes of light cut through the smoke to illuminate the crush of bodies, in all their dark clothing and glittering accessories. 

Sansa squinted to make out the faces, her throat tight to keep herself from coughing. She groped for Sandor's hand behind her, but never quite reached it. 

"You're here!" Wylla cried. She surfaced from the smoke and looped Sansa into a hug. "My sweet northern lady. Come on, let's get you a drink. I need you to meet everyone." 

Wylla tugged Sansa to a ramshackle table laden with bottles and half-full cups. She rummaged through a dented bucket of ice, then put a can in Sansa's hand. The words _Bael Blue Rose_ glistened on the side in a sprawling script, appropriately set over the picture of a blue rose. 

Wylla opened up her own beer, drank deeply, then stuck out her tongue. "Tastes like piss, but you get used to it—by the sixth can." 

Sansa giggled nervously alongside Wylla, and grimaced when she discovered that her new friend had spoken truthfully. But Sansa kept drinking, because there were so many people, all of them drinking, and laughing, and sneaking looks her way. So many people, and none of them were Sandor. Where had he gone off to? 

She didn't get her answer—Wylla stole her hand again and dragged her to a group of three people lingering in the far corner of the room, in a part the flickering lights didn't quite reach. _Her people_ , she called them. The skinny brunette was named Willow; she was Wylla's girlfriend. Then Sansa met Melly, a stocky girl with cropped pink hair and at least twenty rings on her face. Their other friend was named Puddingfoot. Puddingfoot had smooth skin near black with ink, from the crown of their shaved head to the tips of their ringed fingers. 

"So this is the Hound's girl, huh?" they said, blasting Sansa with a plume of sourleaf smoke. 

"The very one," Wylla returned. "Oh Gods, tell everyone what you told me about… _you know_."

Sansa did know, and the knowing made her blood prickle beneath her skin. Still, she stuck out her hands and parsed out ten whole inches. Maybe closer to eleven, this time. 

All her new friends howled with laughter. "So what's he like in bed then?" Melly asked. "A tiny little thing like you ought to be broken in two with a cock like that." 

Before Sansa could even begin to think of an answer, Willow cut in. "He hangs around the Black Cell. Or at least he did before—" 

"I forgot about that," Wylla interjected. "Gods, is he that wild in bed? Shackles and chains? I wanna try that shit." 

_Shackles? In bed?_ Sansa would be surprised if there was any whiteness left on her face. Her whole body was blushing now, even down between her legs. She looked around for Sandor, or any reason at all to excuse herself, but she came back to four eager sets of eyes. 

_Maiden forgive me_ , she pleaded. 

"He's nice to me," Sansa said, quietly, just in case the Gods could hear over the raucous metal that clanged around the room. "He's big, but he's really quite gentle, and—" there would be no going back now "—I can fit all of him. If he goes slow." 

"Gods you're precious." Wylla replied. "Fresh from the Sevenschool, is it?" 

Sansa nodded. "I go to Oxcross now." 

"Well," Melly said, sipping at her own can of Blue Rose. "It's a miracle you got him out. He doesn't come around much anymore. Not that he's that great of company." 

"Definitely not," Puddingfoot agreed. "A total fucking prick. At least he's clean now." 

"Oh, don't be such cunts. He charmed Sansa right out of her skirt, maybe he's not so bad. "

 _He's not bad_ , Sansa thought, _and he’s very clean_. She swallowed down the words with more of her gross beer, hoping it would make all this talk of Sandor easier. She should have known that Sow's End was no better than court. Hungry eyes were everywhere, waiting to feast on anything new. 

And Sansa was certainly new. 

Thankfully, Wylla helped to remedy that. She pulled Sansa from one circle to the next, and thrust fresh cans of Blue Rose in her hands before Sansa could protest. The beer made all the introductions a breeze, though it also made remembering names rather difficult. It had lost its taste by the time Wylla said, "You know what would be fun? Getting high." 

Sansa must have pulled a face, because Wylla added, "What? You've smoked hemp before, no way you haven't." 

Hempweed, yes. But getting high? Was that what Sandor was trying to do every time he rolled them a joint? But the beer made Sansa bolder, so she answered, "I've smoked hemp," purposefully leaving out, _and I've hated it both times_. 

It was enough for Wylla. She took Sansa across the room to a cluster of ratty armchairs and sofas pulled around a cluttered low table. Ordinarily, Sansa would have been frightened by the sight of the half dozen burly men, bearded and grim-faced, that filled up every seat. But at the far back, in a black oak chair upholstered in dingy velvet, was Sandor. 

His eyes shone when they met Sansa's, and her belly somersaulted. Even before Wylla called out, "Make some fucking room, I'm trying to get Sansa Stark high," Sansa’s feet carried her through the tangle of bodies towards him. 

There was certainly no space to share Sandor's chair, so she knelt on a cushion just beside his boots. She smiled at him in greeting, and he reciprocated with a sweet caress on the crown of her head. Ruby-red warmth glowed inside her. This was good. _Being close_. 

Wylla had tucked herself between two men that were at least three times her size, both of whom wore iron mail and necklaces of bone buried beneath their bushy beards, and she seemed to be bossing them around. After a bit of back and forth, one of the men passed a tall glass tower to Sandor. "She wants the girl to smoke," he grunted. 

How on earth were you supposed to smoke from _that_? 

The column of glass looked more like a sculpture than anything functional, with a black snake coiling down into the gaping mouth of a skull. But Sandor must have been familiar with it, because he put a lighter to the skull's forehead and pulled a breath from the very top of the column, until the black glass turned grey with smoke. 

He set a hand where his mouth had just been and held the whole thing out to Sansa. "Try to take it all, little bird. I bet you can do it." 

Ever obedient, Sansa lowered her lips to the opening. She drank in all the smoke until the glass went black again. She held it. She held it until her lungs ached and tears came trickling down her cheeks. She held it until the world went fuzzy at the corners. She held it until she coughed. 

And All Seven Above, did she cough. 

She coughed, and coughed, and coughed, so hard that she expected to launch her lungs onto the table. She clasped a hand to her mouth just in case, but they never came up. Even after wiping her tears away, everything stayed fuzzy, set to the tune of her thundering pulse. 

Strange eyes were on her, lots of them. Mouths opened, closed, roared, and gnashed. Brutish hands clutched big bellies. When the sound came back, Sansa finally understood. 

They were _laughing_.

So she should laugh too. Oh, how easily it came up from her belly, as automatic as a cough, but soft and light as silk. Deeper laughter sounded from Sansa’s side—Sandor. He loved to laugh, Sansa realized. Most times it had a biting edge, but not now. His laughter was honey, smooth and robust. 

It was the sweetest sound Sansa had ever heard. 

But he caught her eye and stopped short. “What is it, little bird?” 

“You’re sweet,” was all she got out. That made him smile again. He picked up her cheek and ran his thumb along the bridge of her nose. 

“You’re much sweeter,” he answered. “How are you feeling? That hit was something else.” 

“Um…” _Feeling_. There was a lot to feel, wasn’t there? There was the music and smoke that soaked into Sansa’s sweater. There was the pressure of too much beer bloating her belly, and a tight waistband to trap it all in. And there was Sandor’s hand, large and warm on her skin. She liked that feeling the most. 

“I like your hand,” she ended up saying. 

“I know, sweet girl.” Sandor brushed Sansa’s bottom lip, pulling it down just-so. Then came _that_ feeling, the ache between her legs. “You earned it.” 

When another cough sounded out from across the table, Sansa’s reward slipped away, and she turned to see all those strange eyes again. No one spoke. 

Of course, how could she be so silly? She needed to introduce herself. 

“I’m Sansa,” she said. She paired her words with a well-practiced smile. And then, faulting anything else, she added, “I think I'm rather high." 

This time, when they all laughed together, they laughed as friends. Sansa forced an introduction from every one of those big brawny men. There were the brothers Gendel and Gorne, then there was Toefinger, Bodger, and Howd. The youngest was Quort, his beard only a patchy inch of red hair. Hempen Dan had to be nudged awake, but he smiled sweetly at Sansa and promised she could smoke his stash anytime she wanted. 

They wanted to know how a Stark had landed here, in Sow’s End. So she told them. 

“I go to school at Oxcross. I’m studying music there, and I came here—” _because the weirwood called me_ “—I came here for the music too.” 

“The little bird can sing.” 

Sandor’s rasping voice cut across the circle, and Sansa stiffened in surprise. She gave him a wide eyed stare, thinking of what he had told earlier that night.

“Sing something, then,” slurred Gendel. 

“Aye, sing!” called his brother. 

“I want to hear something too!” Wylla said, near crushed between the two of them.

But Sansa didn’t have anything prepared. All the songs left her head that very instant and sweated out through her palms. She ran them steadily over her denim-clad thighs, then looked to Sandor for help. 

“I’ll put on your tape.” 

She hated those few long minutes without him. She especially hated when the raging metal screeched to a halt, only to be replaced by smoggy silence. But what she hated the most was when her music fizzled from the speakers, so jarring that she squeezed her eyes shut and prayed the electricity would miraculously blow out. 

Metal was harsh, but this was much harsher. It had no right to be played at a party like this. 

But her song kept coming, and all her friends stayed dead silent. Respite came when Sandor sat back down in his old oak chair. Sansa dropped into him. She rested her head on his thigh and curled an arm around his great big boot. She traced his yellow laces, and she listened. 

Her song wasn’t bad. It was a true song, straight from the part of her heart that shone the brightest. The part that wanted to be a star in the sky, brilliant and free. _Another Nova_ , she called it in her head. There were millions of stars, trillions, and Sansa longed to be among them. 

_I want to show you off_ , Sandor had said. And if she climbed atop his shoulders, wouldn’t she be that much closer to the sky? 

The song faded to silence. A thick, dreadful silence. When Sansa looked up, dozens of blank faces looked back. 

Wylla spoke first. 

“Again.” 

When no one moved, she wriggled up to standing. “We’re playing it again.” 

Sansa drifted into sweet depths of outer space, then. 

Everyone orbited around her. Hands tugged her up, dropped onto her shoulder, pulled her this way and that. They all wanted to smile at her, and Sansa smiled back. Her smile was the easiest thing in the world. It sparkled in the sky among so many other sparkling smiles. Sansa danced. She sang her own song back to herself. She was a star in the dark night. 

She met so many new friends. People wanted to know so much about her, and Sansa was happy to tell them. She bounced from friend to friend, explaining her interest in folk music, or how she found her way to the Den, or how she taught herself to play her beloved Minimarq all on her own. 

That was how she found Archer. _The host_ , she remembered, _it's always important to thank your host._ He was red-haired and freckled, a little older and taller than Sansa. He received all her thanks very courteously, and even put two wet kisses on her cheeks. 

He had something to show her, he said. Something musical. 

But it wasn't in the big smoky room, it was down a darker corridor partitioned off by tangled strands of beads. Archer knew the way without much light, towing Sansa along by her wrist. His room was small, nothing but two bunk beds, tattered band posters, and piles of black clothing on the floor. 

And a synthesizer. A Quester, an older model, a little dented and covered in peeling stickers. 

He showed Sansa everything about it, even though she already knew. But she was good at listening, so she let Archer talk. He talked, and talked, and he inched steadily closer into Sansa’s atmosphere. Eventually one of his hands left the knobs of his machine and landed on her waist like a big cold spider. 

Sansa wasn't sure what to do about it. She didn't like it there, but would it be rude to take it off? 

She stayed in place, which might have been a bad idea, because then Archer slid behind her. His arms snaked along hers and he guided Sansa's hands to the Quester. "Your turn," he breathed in her ear. 

She tried to play something, anything, but Archer forced his body flush against her back. A hardness pushed into her backside, and her hands started to shake so badly she couldn't even set the first filter right. _He only wants music_ , she assured herself. _He wants to hear me play_. But he didn't seem interested in the sounds Sansa made. His breath was heavy against the nape of her neck, reeking of sour Blue Rose. The scent clung to Sansa's nose so strongly she almost wanted to heave all of hers up and ruin Archer's stupid synth. 

She didn't like this anymore. She wanted to leave. 

She turned around, but that was a horrible mistake. It put her face to face with Archer, and he grinned down on her like a feral cat. "I knew you wanted me, pretty girl." 

His lips had barely grazed her neck when a shout rang out from down the hall. 

"Sansa?" 

And again, louder.

"Sansa, are you down here?" 

Archer leapt away just as Sandor pushed inside, big and dark as a stormcloud, bright rage crackling in his eyes. They went from Sansa, to Archer, and then back again. 

He took one step forward. 

His shadow eclipsed Sansa. His heat simmered up and lapsed at her skin. She should have met his eye, but shame dropped like stone in her belly. She was weak, in too many ways to count. Weak enough to follow a stranger into darkness. Weak enough to let him put his hands on her. Weak enough that after all her betrayal, she still needed rescue. 

She closed her eyes and braced for a strike. 

But it never came. 

"I'm going," Sandor rasped down at her. In her shock, Sansa lifted her face. 

"Going? W-where?" she stuttered. 

"Home. Bed."

"Am I going to bed too?" 

Sandor exhaled, invisible steam pouring from his flared nostrils. His palm dropped to her collarbone, and his fingers curled around the back of her neck. He dragged his thumb down the column of her throat in one long swipe. 

"If you like." 

A different, much weaker hand latched onto Sansa's wrist. "Stay here," Archer put in. "We have plenty of extra space." 

The look that Sandor gave him was so sharp Sansa was surprised it didn't slice his spine in two. But apparently Archer was made of stubborn stuff, because his slender fingers sunk deeper into her wrist. 

"Choose," Sandor spit. 

Sansa's eyes darted between the two of them. She measured the feel of their hands against one another. The one at her wrist was cold and slimy. The one at her neck—

There was no question. There was never a question. 

That hand could turn Archer's face to jelly with one effortless tap. _Good_ , Sansa thought. _He deserves it_. Then, to Sandor, she said, "I want to go with you." 

For a split second, his eyes softened. "Good girl," he soothed. He took her by the shoulder and shielded her from Archer as they made their way out. He had half-pushed Sansa through the main room and all the way to the front door when she realized something was missing. 

She groped at her back, but her bag wasn’t there. _It was gone._

She had forgotten all about it. 

How would she ever find it in such a dark and bleary room? She turned to Sandor, praying he would still want to help her despite all the trouble she’d caused, but she didn’t even have to open her mouth. 

“It’s right here, little bird.” Sandor hoisted up her little black backpack by the handle, laughably small in his mighty grip. Sansa snatched it up and pressed it to her chest. “Thank you,” she mumbled into the folds of leather. 

Sandor only grunted, then pulled the door open for her. She didn’t budge. 

“Um—Sandor?” 

“What?” 

“Can I say goodbye to everyone before we go? Please?” 

The sigh that came out of him was rough as gravel, but he answered, “Of course you can. Will you be alright if I wait outside?" 

Sansa nodded. "I'll be so quick, I promise." 

She hurried around the room to collect as many phone numbers as possible. She didn’t want to keep Sandor waiting, and she definitely didn’t want to run into Archer again. Mostly, she wanted to see Wylla. 

Sansa found her last, and gave her a really big hug. Wylla was so nice. “Your song was perfect,” she told Sansa. “You’re definitely playing at my house show.” 

Sansa promised she would. She promised she’d call, and she promised she’d write plenty of songs just like the first one. Wylla said that she and her were going to be really good friends, and that she wished other noble girls had as much sense as her. She would have said a lot more if Sansa hadn't politely disentangled herself and gone for the door. 

When Sansa finally made it outside, she found Sandor at the top of the steps, a joint poised between two thick fingers. 

"Let's get on," he called down before charging out into the dark. 

Sansa trailed at his heels, clumsy on the cobbled pathway. She had to watch her feet and make sure Sandor didn't speed too far ahead, which was made difficult by the heady stream of hemp smoke he sent curling back in her face. 

"Are you angry with me?" she panted, tugging at his sleeve.

"No," he replied. He didn’t spare her a glance. "But I hate parties." 

Oh. Sansa didn't know that was even possible. 

"I love them." She stopped walking and held onto Sandor's sleeve with all her might. That got his attention, but all he said down to her was, "I can tell." 

Then he was off again. 

"Everyone is so nice, though. They liked my song, and Wylla said I could even play at her show. I think they liked me, too. I hope they do." 

"That cunt Archer likes you plenty." Sandor paired his harsh words with another blast of smoke, so big it swallowed up Sansa’s vision. Her boot stuck to a jut of stone, and gravity lured her down. 

Sandor nabbed her by the arm just before she made impact. He steadied her and stared, his entire face steeped in darkness except for shining eyes and a bright patch of bone.

"Are you angry about Archer?" Sansa asked. She suddenly felt very small. 

"Might be."

Sansa sighed and looked down at both pairs of their boots. She twisted her toe, thinking. How could she even begin to apologize for what happened? But Sandor wasn't angry with _her_ , so maybe he didn't want an apology. Maybe he just wanted her to be honest. 

"I'm angry about him too,” she confessed. “He wouldn't stop touching me. I _hated_ it. But I didn't—I didn't know how to leave." 

Sandor spit out one more cloud, then dropped the end of his joint to the cobbled walk and crushed it with his boot. He stepped closer, and lifted Sansa's chin with a finger. "It's not your fault, little bird," he told her. "Archer knew what he was doing. I'll teach you how to fight back next time, like a proper wolfling.” 

Sansa sniffed. "Promise?" 

"Promise." 

Sansa threw her arms around Sandor's middle and nestled her face against his warm mail. At first she smelled only the cold tang of iron, but after a few seconds, Sandor's arms dropped around her shoulders and rained down his perfect scent of hemp and clove. 

Sansa breathed in all she could. He had come to her rescue, and vowed to protect her. _I must be his girl_ , she thought, _and he’s my knight_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Girl and Hound_ coming up next! They'll be heading back to Sandor's place, and I wonder what they'll be getting into there...something to do with Sandor's tastes mayhaps? 
> 
> 'Til then!


	3. Girl and Hound

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa sings.
> 
> Chapter Track: [Angie - Sad Sex](https://youtu.be/amM2DbfeE9U)

Sansa returned to Sandor’s apartment bone-weary. She flopped onto his couch while he tended to Stranger, then he went to the kitchen to grab them a couple of drinks. Sansa asked for anything _but_ beer and prayed he had purchased something more to her taste within the last week. 

Her prayers were answered. 

Sandor put a frosty pint glass in her hand. "Lemonade," he said. "Better than that Blue Rose swill." 

He settled at her side, lifting her legs then dropping them back into his lap. Sansa sipped her lemonade. True to Sandor's word, it was a million times more refreshing than Blue Rose. He set to work on another joint. He must have thought she had enough hemp for the night too, because he didn't even offer her any. 

She would have said no in any case. She was done being high. It made the world so exciting and new, until the newness bit back and turned her into a hapless damsel. She would rather keep her head out of the clouds, for now. 

But she and Sandor were finally alone, so she got to thinking of everything her friends had said at the party. Lemonade or beer, her tongue must have been feeling pretty loose, because she drained her entire glass and asked, "What's the Black Cell?" 

Sandor's jaw clenched. He took one long drag, and exhaled, "You were talking about me." 

Sansa blushed. "Well, yes, but—" 

"It's a club, little bird." 

"Like the Den?" 

"Not quite," Sandor said. He ground the joint in the ashtray, then turned to her. "It's a dungeon."

"Shackles," Sansa breathed, automatic. 

Sandor's eyes glinted dark. He smoothed a palm along her jeans, then picked up one of her wrists where it lay on her belly. "Iron might snap these pretty wrists of yours," he said, tracing a spidery blue vein beneath her fair skin. His hand curled to a tight fist. "I'd do better with rope." 

A nervous squeak caught in Sansa's throat. Alongside it, a steady flow of blood made its way below her belt, and her clit pounded against the confines of her too-tight jeans. Why in the world did this excite her so? She loved Sandor's hands, but rope? Something impersonal, something used to bind up chattel? She was mad. 

Right? 

But madness had led her to Sandor's bed in the first place. Madness put her here, in his apartment, after a night on the streets at Sow's End. She had chosen this madness, and her pulse would have her choose madness again. 

She twisted her wrist in Sandor's grip, relishing the strength of his hold, and whispered, "I'd like that." 

Sandor was over her in an instant. His knee shot up and settled firmly between her legs. He stole both her wrists and pinned them on the arm of the sofa behind her. He came close, black hair dangling, hemp breath sticky on her skin. 

"You want to play with rope, little bird?" he asked, achingly soft. His eyes shone like polished steel as they danced across her face, but they didn't sting. He liked to play, Sansa realized. He liked being hungry, and he especially liked making a feast out of her. But it was all a game. 

So she nodded. "Yes, please." 

"Then take off your clothes, and get into bed. _Now._ "

Sansa obeyed. 

She hurried to the bedroom, heart aflutter, and peeled off her clothing as fast her fingers would allow. She had just crawled into bed when Sandor returned, coils of slender rope clutched in either fist. Her whole world was her pulse again. It roared in her ears, slammed against her ribs, and mostly, it swelled between her legs. Already, her own water trickled onto Sandor's covers. _Messy little bird._

Sandor set to work, one limb, one bedpost at a time. First were her wrists. He bound each with a series of loops, then pulled. "How's that?" he asked, smoothing a thumb over his handiwork. "It won't get any tighter, no matter how much you squirm." 

"Um—" Sansa started. She flexed her wrist to test its captivity. "It's good." 

Sandor gave her a soft smile. "Good. You have to tell me if it's too much." 

He fixed her other wrist and hitched it to the opposite bedpost, then circled to the foot of the bed and began winding rope around her right ankle. She hadn't realized he would bind her legs, but she submitted to Sandor's care. His fingers moved with a quick, comforting tenderness. After every knot he'd mutter a sweet, "How does that one feel?" To be followed up with a, "good little bird," when she agreed that all her binds felt just right. 

But when he tied her last ankle into place, splaying her legs to reveal her wetness, Sansa whimpered. And all the wrongness of this situation, all the madness, dropped onto her chest. What was she thinking, letting herself be strapped to a bed by a man she had known for less than a moon entire. What was she to him, other than a good girl or a little bird? 

Suddenly it wasn't enough. 

So before she could stop herself, she blurted, "Am I your girl?" 

Sandor's heavy brow creased. He glared at her from his position at the foot of the bed, his burns flickering in the lamplight. But to soften himself, he ran his fingers lightly along Sansa's calf, making gooseprickles rise up all over her skin. 

"What did you just say?" he asked, dangerously sharp. 

"Wylla said—" 

"Oh, so Wylla's the one talking. Do all your new friends have something to say about me?" 

"Well, Puddingfoot—" 

But Sandor didn't want to hear that. He threw off his tunic, and he pounced. He dropped into bed and tucked his knees beneath Sansa's thighs. It raised up her hips, put her wet flower on full display. She struggled against the ropes, a futile attempt at doing something, _anything,_ to cover herself up. 

It didn't matter if she was Sandor's girl. She had already surrendered. 

She whimpered.

"Don't be frightened, little bird." Sandor's fingertips swept along the softness of her inner thighs. "You're going to tell me everything they said. If you sing me a sweet enough song, you'll earn this." He slid a finger along her the front of her swollen sex, lingering at her clit. "Understand?" 

"I understand." 

"Good. Now, little songbird, what did you tell your friends?"

His finger stayed on her clit, but it was a teasing touch, a flicker that had Sansa lifting her hips, petitioning for more.

Sandor withdrew. "Little bird," he scolded. "Sing." 

Sansa gave him a good, long look. She was here again, spread apart for a giant. A giant marked by flame and ink. A giant with a shine in his eyes that Sansa had never known. A giant that she shouldn't know, but a giant who kept calling her back. Every word that fell from his half-burned lips made her blood bristle and ache. 

He knew _exactly_ what he was doing. 

He was playing their game. And Sansa wanted to play, too. 

So she tested her tethers, one at a time. She had chosen these constraints, just as she had chosen Sandor. She breathed deep, filling her lungs with the warm, smoke-tinged air, and she met his gleaming grey eyes dead on. 

"They wanted to know how big you are. How big _he_ is.” 

That got Sandor to move again. He nestled ringed fingers in her maidenhair, letting the warmth of his palm hover just above her clit. "And what did you tell them?" 

"I didn't—I used my hands," she replied. She jostled the rope to prove her point. Sandor snarled. 

“That’s a pity. You’ll use your words, now.” 

His palm dropped closer, the looming heaviness of his hand the sweetest threat Sansa had ever known. What did she have to say about him? 

Well, a lot, actually. 

“You’re big,” she breathed. 

“I think we both know that,” he came back. “Give me something else.” 

His hand didn't budge, so Sansa went on, “You’re _so_ big. I didn’t even think it was possible for a man to be that big. I _still_ don’t know if it should be possible. But—but—” her praise ended in a shuddering moan—Sandor had lowered the heel of his palm onto Sansa’s clit and pressed down, but only enough to make her pulse ache even worse. His other hand went to stroke the growing swell in his jeans. 

Gods, she wanted him. She wanted _all_ of him. 

“They asked if you fit," she whispered. 

“And what did you say to that?” 

“I said you could, if you went slow.”

She must have done well, because fingers replaced his palm. He circled her clit, treating her to extra pressure, and then came the best treat of all. He sunk _two_ fingers into her sex. They slipped right inside and braced against her favorite spot. There was so much behind that spot, more than Sansa had ever felt before. It felt as though an entire spring rested atop her belly— hot, and so, so heavy. 

“Keep talking,” Sandor said. His eyes didn’t leave her as he began to unbuckle his belt, slowly. “Tell me about my cock, little bird.” 

“Um—” Sansa started, trying to look anywhere _but_ Sandor’s bulge. She settled for looking at his hand inside her, which might have been worse. “I love your cock,” she whined. “I think about it during class. I think about it during my lessons. I think about it at night, and in my dreams. I can’t—I haven’t been able to think of anything else. You shouldn’t be able to fit inside of me, but you do, and—oooh—” 

Another finger found its way inside her, and Sandor put it to work, winding against the pool of warmth in her belly, the one that wanted so desperately to drop. But in the next instant, his hand was gone. 

“You did good, little bird.” 

Sandor held himself now, using that same glistening hand to stroke along his length. He laid the other on her waist, and thumbed the fullness of her belly. “I’ll give you something special.” 

Sansa expected _him_ , but instead, Sandor shifted back on the bed, lowering his face between her legs. His breath lapsed at Sansa’s swollen clit, so achingly light that it made her blood boil. What was he doing? She wanted his cock—anything other than hot air. 

When his mouth dropped down, she understood. 

_Something special._

Sandor didn’t lie. His lips locked around her clit, and his tongue ran wild. Gods, his fingers were strong, but his tongue, Seven forbid. It was wet and warm and slid into all the right places, with all the right pressure. Then he went lower. When his tongue circled Sansa’s entrance, she practically convulsed, tugging her ropes taut and causing the bedposts to creak their complaints. 

Sandor held Sansa in place with one massive palm. The weight of it was immense—it would force all of her water out of her. Combined with the swirl of his tongue, it was simply too much.

She had to let go. 

“Sandor,” she whined. “Sandor, please.” 

But just like that, he was gone. The hand, his tongue, all of it. He peeled back up, still giving himself his own pleasure, but saying nothing. 

His eyes though, he always had the flicker in his eyes that said, _I know what I’m doing._

So like a scared little bird in a cage, Sansa peeped. She tried to scoot back on the bed, but Sandor was advancing. He dropped over her, clasped her chin, and pried her mouth wide open. She watched, horrified, as his mouth drew to a pucker, tongue all too visible as it swept against the tattered ruin of his left cheek. 

But there was nowhere to go. 

So when Sandor loosed his spit into Sansa’s mouth, a huge wet glob of their combined juices, she couldn’t do anything but swallow. She swallowed every last drop. 

Then Sandor smiled. His hand turned soft on her face. He petted her cheek, her jawline, and then smoothed along her plaits, pushing back the curls that clung to her temples. “Look at you, little bird. Drinking up all your sweet juices. Did you like that?” 

Sansa whimpered, then forced out the most pitiful, “Yes,” in the world. 

“Good girl,” Sandor said. “I think I’ll fuck you now.” 

He drew back, shifting his seat between her legs until the tip of his cock pressed just-so against her entrance. Sansa squeezed her eyes shut and braced to receive all that agonizing length she had sung about.

Sandor kept his word. He eased himself into her, one thick inch at time, until her entire belly was stuffed full of throbbing cock. Sansa was certain she could see it through her skin, bulging out of her like it intended to break free. Or was that just the lemonade, and all the gross, watery beer? 

“We’re not done talking,” Sandor said, extracting himself all the way to the tip. “I want to know everything else these little friends of yours said." 

"S-Sandor," Sansa panted, lamenting the hollowness he had left behind. "I already told you—"

"No," he barked. "How did you know about the Cell?" 

"I—it was Wylla—or Willow. They said you used to go there, before—"

"Before _what_?" 

Sandor refused to fill her back up. Instead, he glowered, his burns roiling, sweat slick on his temples. _He can't be angry with me if I'm honest_ , Sansa thought _._ So she confessed, "I don't remember. All I remember is Wylla, she asked if you were that wild, if you liked shackles, and chains."

Sandor seemed to take it as truth. He yielded, dropping himself back inside to the quick of her. They both shared a moan—Sansa's light and smooth, Sandor's heavy and rough as rock. He fell over her with his muscular arms curled around either side of her head. 

"What did you say to that, little bird?" 

Mercifully, he began to move. His slow strokes caught every nerve as he slipped along her walls. "I said—" Sansa began, brow twisted in concentration. "I said—" But she couldn't get her words out, so Sandor stopped, and stared. 

Pinned, Sansa whispered, "I said you were nice." 

It was either the wrong thing to say, or something all too perfect. Sandor ravaged her. Each powerful thrust sunk her deeper into the mattress, until her ropes pulled taut and dug into her wrists. When Sansa yelped, Sandor growled low enough to shake her ribs. His arm slipped behind her back and stuck her bulging belly to his. His mouth fell to her neck. He bit at her skin, teeth sharp on her throat, lips and tongue hungry.

"Good little bird," he breathed, kissing along the line of her jaw. "I'm a nice dog, aren't I? This sweet old dog takes you to bed and he treats you like a proper lady. Is that what you tell everyone?" 

"Y-yes," Sansa sputtered between thrusts. 

"Is this what you imagine in your sweetest dreams? My cock inside your little cunt, splitting your pretty belly in two?"

Sansa tried to shape a "Yes," but her jaw quivered so ferociously the word wouldn't come out. Sandor was good at solving her problems, though. He trapped her chin and lanced her with his cutting eyes. 

"Say it," he rasped. He slammed himself into her very end and throbbed there. "Tell me how my cock feels inside you." 

Sansa swallowed, her jaw flexing against Sandor's rigid hold. She shifted her hips to learn his feel all over again. "It's big," she started. "And warm. It's—it's—" but she couldn't finish the thought. If she focused too intensely, the impossibility of her situation came tumbling down. _I shouldn't be this full._ Sandor shouldn't be so big and so deep, not all at once. _It's impossible._

"I'm so full," she mewled. "It's heavy, Sandor. It's going to spill out." 

He made one of his noises, the visceral kind that rumbled up from his gut. But he treated her gently, tucking her loose curls into place, easing away droplets of sweat that misted her forehead. "Is that true, little bird? Are you going to soak my sheets?" 

He drew up from her. His hands latched onto her hips, fingers entrenched in her backside. Inside her, his pulse raged. Its heat echoed against her walls, and told Sansa all she needed to know—she felt good too. She made him just as desperate for warmth, and even more desperate to hear all her sweet words. 

"Sandor, I—" 

He moved again, one thunderous thrust. Sansa gasped. He truly _would_ break her. That pool inside her was suspended by a veil of silk, something perilously thin and eager to rupture. She tried to grab hold of his chest to stay herself, fighting Sandor's knots, but she just squirmed. She curled her toes into his comforter and writhed in his grip. 

She was going to break. 

He slid out from her, and Sansa cried out, "Please Sandor, please, you can't. If you—I can't—" 

But he did. Sansa had one foot on a cliff. The other dangled. She would fall now, she would fall so far and pray the water below was deep enough to catch her. "Sandor, I'm—" 

Then it all disappeared. 

Sandor tugged her back from the cliff. He took back everything—his cock, his hands—and he left Sansa empty. Two feet on solid ground, aching to be pushed into oblivion. 

Sandor kept going, though. He still had use of his hands, so he went on pulling up and down his impossibly large manhood. It wasn't fair. Sansa deserved to be touched. She had been so good; she had sung him every song he asked for. So why wouldn't he touch her? 

"No," Sansa whispered. She strained against the rope. "No," she said again. She looked to the bedposts—maybe there was a way out—some way she could use her hands, anything to feel as good as Sandor, to glean some tiny bit of friction to push her over the edge. 

But Sandor only laughed, baring his big white fangs. "Keep struggling, little bird," he said. "Just like that. You're not going anywhere." 

He was horrible. A great, big beast. He wasn't a nice dog. If he was a nice dog, he would help her finish. But instead, he watched her struggle. He watched her and his hand moved faster, gliding over his monstrous length, still shining from its dip inside her wetness. Sansa's pulse ached from the memory of him, of his impossible touch, and still she got nothing. 

"You owe me answers," he growled. 

"I told you everything, Sandor, please. I promise." 

"Not quite, little bird. I want to know one more thing." 

"What?" 

"Are you my girl?"

Sansa went slack, her battle against the ropes hard lost. That was _her_ question, not his. How was she supposed to know the answer?

"Little bird…" 

A warning. Sandor reached out, but his hand didn't land where Sansa wanted it, he put it on her swollen belly. He pressed down, hard. 

"Yes," Sansa squealed. "I'm your girl." 

"Good girl," Sandor replied. "Again." 

His hand sunk even deeper—maybe it didn't even need to be inside to break her. Everything was so tender, so raw that all her nerves were bundled up as one. Sansa was certain that even his breath on her skin would send her toppling from the cliff. 

With that thought, his hand went away. 

So Sansa sang. 

"Sandor, I'm your girl, I promise. I'm all yours." 

"Is that so?" He trailed a finger along the inside of her thigh. "The little bird is mine, she says. But if you're mine, I'll have to keep you close." 

"Close is good," Sansa whined. "I want to be close." 

For once, she was certain she had said the right thing, because Sandor's finger wandered into her wetness. It slid up and down, wound around her clit, but not on it. Then it lingered at her entrance, a bittersweet gift. "Do you promise, little bird?" The finger slipped inside her, and it may as well have been as big his cock for how much heat bloomed at her center. "Promise you won't put those pretty wings to use and fly away?" 

"I'll stay with you, I promise. I'm not going anywhere. I just want to be close. I want to be your girl, for as long as you'll have me." 

The reward was simple—her favorite spot. Sandor knew this, like he somehow knew everything, so he curled his finger up and bore into that spot with all his strength. 

This would undo her. 

Sansa wasn't quite as experienced as Sandor, but she was learning. And she knew this—his hand, buried inside her, reaching—this would rip her precious silken shield in two. The spring at her center longed to become a flood, something no dam could withhold. 

"Sing, little bird," Sandor commanded in a tight rasp. "Sing me that pretty song again." 

She earned another finger, and twice the strength. At first she could only moan, but she looked on Sandor's face and remembered his desperation. _He needs this_ , Sansa thought, _just as badly as I need his touch._

Pushing past the tide that churned inside her, Sansa incanted, "I'm your girl, Sandor. I'll always be your girl. I'll be yours, and I won't fly away. I'll stay close. I'll be yours." 

One press, another, then one more, and she fell. She fell and burst at the same time—the water wasn't so far, after all. Maybe she _was_ the water. All the pressure slipped away as she swirled and drifted on a crestless wave. "I'm yours," she whispered as she rolled. "I'm yours, I'm yours, I'm yours," and the water carried her away, to deep infinity. 

Sansa floated there as long as she could, weightless. 

She couldn't stay forever, of course. But when she came back from riding her waves, the wetness was still there. A cold wetness. 

_Something damp_.

Sansa looked down on herself, and her heart sunk to the black opposite of wherever she had just been. "Oh," she puffed. "Oh, no." 

There _had_ been water inside of her, so much water, and now all of it had soaked into the sheets. It wasn't just a little bit of stickiness, it was an entire puddle, a pond even. Sandor swam right in its middle, his cock slightly soft in his hand, knuckles coated in white seed. The heat that rose on Sansa's face could have baked an entire cake. 

She had wet the bed. 

Her jaw began to shake, and she knew she shouldn't look up, but she did. Sandor's face was hard iron, his eyes restless. They went from the puddle, to his hand, then back up to Sansa. She had to explain herself, anything to justify her shame, but the only pathetic thing she could force from her lips was, "I think—I think it was the lemonade." 

Sandor burst to life. He roared with laughter so fierce that he arched back and set a hand on his belly. Sansa drowned in its loudness, though she wished she could drown in the ocean instead. When she reclaimed air on the surface in one dry sob, Sandor stopped. 

"Oh, sweet little bird." 

He came to her rescue, scooping her up in his arms and pressing her head against his chest. "Whatever it was, we'll get it cleaned up." He smoothed his hand over her hair, over and over, until Sansa's sobs waned to whimpers. Then Sandor started chuckling to himself again, which did little for her shame, but at least let her know he wasn't angry. "Seven fucking hells," he said into her hair. "I've never come so hard in my whole sorry life." 

Sansa peeled up from his chest to find his eye. "Really? You mean it?" 

"Of course I mean it. Gods, we need to figure out how to make you do that again." 

They shared a smile, and Sandor gave her a few sweet kisses before helping her out of her knots. He was _so_ helpful. Once she was free, he scrounged up a knit blanket from the bottom of his wardrobe. It was a dull pastel pink, dusty smelling, but it warmed Sansa right up. She bundled herself in it and sat in Sandor's desk chair while he changed the bedding. 

It was a horrible mess, but he didn't grumble once. No, he grinned to himself while he soaked up the puddle with a few tattered towels, then he stripped the sheets. And he boomed out a laugh every time he glanced to Sansa, who couldn't help but frown. After he replaced the sheets and laid down a faded quilt, he came over to her. He kissed and nipped at her downturned lips until she giggled, then he scooped her up and tossed her into the bed. 

Sansa wanted to be sour, but he kept kissing her. Maybe he hadn't eaten dinner. He stole little bites from her lips, her nose, her cheeks, and then her neck. Each one made her giggle. She didn't know boys kissed like this. She didn't know a man so large could give such small kisses. 

Sansa decided to learn new kisses too. She practiced on his chest, because it was right in front of her, all hairy and inky and huge. He had enough muscle for little mouthfuls. His skin tasted salty and his hair tickled Sansa's tongue. She smiled as she kissed, and she started to ask questions too. Sandor loved to talk almost as much as she did. He got his tattoos on the front. The best artists were up there. Northmen have taste, he said. Northmen were the only kind of people who would stain his skin with runes. 

"What do the runes say?" was the next logical question. 

"Elinor," he answered, setting Sansa's fingers to a line of ancient letters on his ribs, tangled in the weirwood's branches. He slid her hand to the opposite side of him. "Gwyneth." 

"Your mother?" 

"Aye, my mother."

Sansa kissed those runes, because it seemed like the right thing to do. You were always supposed to kiss your mother. She looked to Sandor's hand next, and ran her finger over his rough knuckles. "What about these?" 

Sandor pulled both his fists side by side. He lifted the left. "Nåde," he said. Then lifted the right fist. "And ære. Mercy and glory." 

"Mercy and glory," Sansa repeated. She kissed each one in kind. "A pleasure to meet you." 

When she looked back up to Sandor, he didn't seem so hungry anymore. His face was soft, almost sad. His lips drew together and trembled and the burnt corner. His eyes were as bright as stars. Sansa recognized that far off stare, and she didn't quite like it. 

"What is it?" she asked. She smiled a half-hearted smile, because she didn't know what else to do. "You're always looking at me like that—like I'm a ghost." 

"Are you?" he shot back. 

"Sandor—" Sansa brought her face to his chest, and laid kisses along the trunk inked on his skin. "I'm real," she whispered. "I'm your girl." She set her lips to the weirwood's weeping eye. Into it, she mumbled, "And you're my knight." 

Sandor let out a quick bitter bark, then picked up Sansa's chin with a finger. "Who told you that one? Is Puddingfoot roaming around Sow's End, calling me a knight?" 

"Well, not exactly, it's just—" 

"Tell me this—did they call you the knight's girl?" 

Sansa pulled in her lower lip. _He always knows._

"No," she admitted, eyes downcast. "They called me the Hound's girl." 

"That's right, little bird." His words were rough, but his hand stayed soft on her face. His thumb worked gentle strokes over her cheekbone. "I'm a mean old hound. If anyone comes too close to what's mine, I'll bite." 

_Good_ , Sansa thought, trailing a finger down the trunk of the weirwood to trace the fangs of a snarling hound. She could think of a few people she'd want Sandor to bite, Joffrey and Archer to start. But there was one man in particular, who came too close too often, who deserved a bite most of all. 

_Good._

Perhaps knights were too noble. Perhaps the protection of a loyal hound was what she truly needed, after all. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeehaw! Next up: a day together in Sow's End. 
> 
> 'Til then.


	4. No Future

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa and Sandor spend a day in Sow's End.
> 
> Chapter track: [Agnes Obel - It's Happening Again](https://youtu.be/YT-ECHaz4PE)

Sansa woke with her face smashed into Sandor's chest, sticky with sweat. His arms caged her in, so she stayed put, in a hot and stinky cloud of body odor. She didn't know what else to do—she had never spent the night with a boy before—and Joffrey would never hold her as close as this, if he even came close at all. 

So she waited. She swallowed back all her own warm air and made herself sweatier by the minute. 

Finally, Sandor stirred. The first thing he said to Sansa was, "You stayed put." Sansa blushed, Sandor grinned, and he somehow tugged her even tighter so he could torment her with those kisses that were half-bite. He nibbled at her neck, down to her breasts, and then he even stuck his face in her armpit. His scruff tickled her terribly, but no amount squirming would set her free. He growled into her skin, then resurfaced to say, "We need to clean you up, little bird." 

Sandor's bathroom wasn't particularly neat. It was more old than anything—he had a chipped porcelain basin with a rusty faucet and a pull-chain toilet with a crooked tank, all atop a crumbling tile floor. The massive clawfoot tub was pretty enough, though its enamel coat was peeling off in big white flakes. Above it was a small cloudy window that filtered in soft daylight. 

While Sandor got their shower ready, Sansa piled her hair on top of her head, preemptively mistrusting his taste in hair-care products. She stepped into the far end of the tub and slid the mildewy curtain shut behind her, then congratulated her own intuition. There was no shampoo to speak of, just a lump of soap in a glass dish on the windowsill. _How on earth does he keep clean?_ Sansa wondered. And then, _Does he, though?_

"Watch your feet, little bird." 

Sansa looked down and gasped as a stream of warm, yellow _not-water_ landed between her toes. "Oh, gross," she moaned. She scrambled to the absolute furthest part of the tub and reached for the curtain, but Sandor trapped her upper arm. He howled with laughter as she struggled against his hold. "You're the worst," she whined to the wall. "You're—you're—" 

"An animal?" 

" _Yes,_ " she wailed. 

"Keep pouting like that," Sandor growled. "It's making me hard." 

Sansa glanced over her shoulder, and _of course_ he wasn't lying. His manhood hung heavy with arousal, the reddened tip of him pressing through its sheath. 

Sansa frowned. 

So Sandor laughed even harder. "Just like that," he teased, palming his length. Sansa tried to keep frowning—she really did—but when she met Sandor's eye, her lips betrayed her, warping up to a wobbly smile. Why was he like this? And why was it so grotesquely funny?

"I'm still mad," she huffed, furrowing her brow even though her mouth wouldn't cooperate. 

"Alright, mad girl. Let's get some soap on those pretty tits of yours." 

He wrangled her back to him and grabbed the soap. As he lathered her up, his scent of cinnamon and clove steamed into the air. Sansa yielded to his touch—she would smell like him. Sandor smoothed the bar over her arms, her shoulders, her belly. He saved her breasts for last, and after they were sufficiently sudsy, he put both his hands on them. 

Sansa never thought of her breasts as anything special, not terribly small, certainly not as big as most men seemed to like. But Sandor _really_ liked them. He didn't even say anything as he buried his fingers into their softness and thumbed her nipples to pink peaks. His breath got heavier, and his cock grew stiff between them. It thumped at Sansa's belly like a warm, fleshy sword. 

"Touch me," Sandor urged, looking down on her with low-lidded eyes. "Use your pretty hands anyway you like." 

There was a lot of him to explore, more man and muscle than she knew what to do with. But Sansa liked those muscles. She ran her palms up his thighs, past his hips, to the swell of his inky, hairy abs. She petted him there, and his cock danced up to meet her. She giggled—a funny giant. Her fingers worked their way back down. They sifted through the coarse pubic hair at his base and prodded the heaviness beneath. Sandor's breath snagged at that touch. 

So Sansa finally picked up his stupidly large manhood. She held it in two hands, barely enclosed, and let soapy water guide her strokes. It wasn't too much meat to manage. Bubbles frothed, his pulse throbbed, and he parsed out the sweetest words. "Good girl," he told her. "My cock loves those little hands of yours. You have the perfect touch, don't you?" 

Sansa blushed and gave him all her strength, and his cock grew redder and harder. She knew he was close when his breath started to catch and go lower, each exhale more of a growl than anything human. Sandor steadied himself with a hand curled over her shoulder, palm digging into her collarbone. He pressed his thumb deep into the hollow of her throat and ground himself into her grip, getting all he could from her. He sputtered, "Fuck, that's it, good little—" just as his cock quivered and spit out strings of seed all over her knuckles. 

She loved how he felt when he finished. She couldn't help but to imagine how it would feel inside her, all that red-hot explosiveness set against her own aching flesh. She shivered at the thought. 

"Do you want a treat too, little bird?" Sandor asked, sweeping his thumb along her neck. 

"Um…" _What kind of treat?_ He had given her plenty of those last night, but when Sansa set a hand to her belly, she could only think of the _other_ kind. The kind she hadn't had since midday yesterday. 

"Can I have breakfast?" She blinked up at Sandor and smiled as sweetly as she could. He smiled back down at her, his eyes bright. 

"Of course, little bird. I know just the place." 

They dressed quickly. Sansa's sweater was much too smelly for her liking, so she had to borrow one of Sandor's shirts. It was a big black t-shirt that looked suspiciously similar to his Oathkeeper shirt, except this one said Lady Forlorn across the chest. She tucked it into her jeans, then let her hair drop to her hips. She hoped she looked femine enough. When she asked Sandor what he thought, he said, "Forget breakfast, I'd rather eat you."

Sansa blushed, and they headed out the door. 

Sandor took her to a shop a couple blocks away. A bakery, judging by the warm floury scent that wafted down the street. A heavy-set Dothraki man with a long braid sat beside the door, his brawny arms crossed. After exchanging a quick nod with the man, Sandor guided her inside by the waist. 

The smell was even better inside. It was a tiny place, walls painted a shabby olive color, a tube of fluorescent light flickering on the low ceiling. The display case took up most of the floor, a wall to wall array of breads and pastries in every shape and size. Sansa's eyes widened from the splendor of it all, and her stomach rumbled its agreement. How would she ever choose? 

A wrinkled Dothraki woman perked up from behind the counter and waddled over to them. Thankfully, Sandor did all the ordering. "Three mare," he said, pointing to a pile of crescent-shaped hand pies. "And a sweetgrass for the girl." 

They got their pies and two cups of milk and took them to a makeshift counter that ran below the windows, scarcely more than a plank of wood with a few scattered stools. Sandor stood against the wall, since he was already too big for such a small shop, and he had Sansa sit in a stool right beside him. His hand, Mercy, stayed put at her beltline. 

The sweetgrass pie was everything Sansa could have dreamed. A flaky golden crust wrapped around a true-to-its-name sweet filling, with a subtle heat that tingled her tongue. Sansa went to wash it down with some milk, but whatever sour and curdled liquid Sandor had ordered was definitely _not_ milk. She coughed back into the cup and prayed the shopkeeper wouldn't notice her rudeness. 

Sandor noticed of course, and he grinned down at her. "Not one for fermented mare's milk?" 

Sansa shook her head. 

He drained both cups, and then polished off the leftover half of Sansa's pie. When he started gathering up all the wrappers and napkins, Sansa asked, "Where should we go next?" 

"Home," was Sandor's reply. 

Sansa frowned. "We were _just at_ home. I've only ever seen Sow's End in the daytime once, and I scarcely knew where to go. But I have you now, so you have to show me your favorite places." 

"Fine," Sandor grumbled. "I suppose there are a few that are halfway decent." 

Sansa made Sandor hold her hand as they navigated the crooked streets of Sow's End. This was no neighborhood for a lady like her. These were common folk who played ball games in the street, threw dice outside corner stores, and smoked cigars thicker than Sandor's fingers. In every alley, on every stoop, there were rebels in black clothes, skin punched through with silver. It was Sandor's court—he shook hands, offered nods or sometimes simple grunts. He held Sansa close and introduced her whenever someone called, "Oy, Hound! Who's the pretty lady?" 

"This is my little bird," he'd say. "Sansa Stark." 

"Enchanted," Sansa would reply, and she'd accept kisses to her hand and cheeks, blushing as Sandor stood by. The people were nice; the streets were gross. A breeze carried hot stable smell out from the gutters and alleys. Crushed glass dotted the walk, discarded flyers and street sandwich wrappers clung to the cobbles like paper-mache. Leaking bags of garbage idled on the curb and boiled like stew. None of the houses matched. Paint peeled on facades that wilted on crooked beams. Weeds grew from crumbing porch steps and flower boxes held nothing but cigarette butts. This was no place for a lady. 

It was a place for Arya, probably. Her and her mummer's troupe probably lived in a saggy wooden shack just like these, but the Braavosi version. Worse, she probably liked her shack! She was silly like that. She was silly like Sandor. 

They would probably get along. 

Sansa should call. It had been what—three moons since their last argument? Arya could never keep her mouth shut about Uncle Petyr. _Littlefinger_ , as she would have it. It was so vexing, Sansa could scarcely stand it. _Arya will never understand us!_

Sandor came to a sudden stop, and yanked Sansa by the hand to wrangle her back to him. She peered up to read the wooden sign that hung above their heads: _Stonedoor Records._

Sansa gasped and quite frankly squealed in excitement, which had Sandor grumbling, but he towed her inside. He stuck by her as she went through all the crates stuffed haphazardly with records. The titles were more obscure than what Sansa was used to, with creepy dark forest covers that matched all of Sandor's shirts. He explained them as best he could, and the shopkeeper, Errok, even let them listen to a few of Sandor's favorites. 

By the end of it, Sansa had an armful of albums that she toted to the register. While Errok began tallying everything up, she noticed Sandor staring at something in the display case just beside the counter. Inside sat a gleaming back record inlaid with silver runes, next to a colorful square jacket with a painting of a grisly bearded giant, stalking alone through snow-frosted woods. 

"What's that?" Sansa whispered. Sandor and Errok chuckled in unison, apparently sharing some private joke. So she pressed, "What's so funny?"

"That," Sandor started, "That is one of a hundred copies of Giantsbane's _The Last of the Giants_." 

"A legend," Errok put in. 

"A true collector’s item, that. Can’t play the damn thing of course, but it’s got to be the only copy this far south of the wall." 

"Well I want it," Sansa chimed. 

Two very narrowed sets of eyes landed on her. Sandor spoke up first. 

"That'll set you back a hundred Gold Dragons, little bird. If you're carrying around a hundred dragons in that little bag of yours, then I'm the fucking king." 

Well, it certainly was a little steep, but at least it wasn't two hundred dragons—that would truly be too much. Besides, the record looked so special, or at least, Sandor looked at it like it was very special. There was no reason she _shouldn't_ have it. She would give it to Sandor, anyway. 

"I'll write a check," she offered up, already reaching inside her backpack. "My uncle won't mind. That's nothing to him, truly."

This time, only Errok laughed. Sandor's brow furrowed over dark eyes. "What did you say your uncle does again?" 

"I didn't, but, um—he serves as Master of Coin, for the Vale." 

"The Vale, as in _all_ of the Vale?

Sansa nodded. 

"Fuck's sake," Sandor grumbled. "Buy that bloody record, girl." 

So she did. Errok wrapped it in a length of supple black leather, embossed with the word Giantsbane, then covered that in a few layers of brown paper, and tied it all up with string. He put it in black canvas bag, which ended up in Sandor's care, alongside Sansa's other purchases. 

Only after they set back out down the street did she feel the black spider of guilt creep along her bones. _Be careful._ Jeyne's words echoed in her head, a warning Sansa was somehow incapable of formulating on her own. 

Dropping a bag of dragons at a record shop in Sow's End was decidedly not careful. 

And walking down the streets of Sow's End, hand in hand with the Hound, was just as reckless. It didn't matter if these were his streets. Eyes stuck to them wherever they went, and Sansa found herself wondering, _Are those Uncle's eyes?_ He had people everywhere, though there were more of them in the Vale and King's Landing. Uncle always knew what she did in King's Landing whenever she had a spare afternoon to herself. 

"How was your little trip to the Street of Seeds?" he'd say on the phone, casually, as if Sansa had given him any forewarning whatsoever. But she had learned to answer back just as casually, and especially nice. Uncle Petyr hated when she didn't play nice. 

He only called her once a week since she came to Oxcross. And if he did ask her about the dragons, she'd say she bought a new harp, a golden lute, or even another Minimarq. He was much too busy to travel west, so it's not like he would come searching for the evidence. 

She would be fine. He was far, far away. 

And he loved her. 

She would be fine. 

Still, Sansa held a little tighter to Sandor's hand. She put herself close, cast in the darkness of his shadow. _I'm fine._

Their next stop was Firestorm Books. They stayed for a little while, but the shop was cramped, hot, and rather loud. A group of people clustered in the back, a book club of sorts, engaged in a heated discussion about the _Manifest of Freedom_. 

Morbidly curious, Sansa bought a copy for herself, and they were on their way. 

They turned onto a block that Sansa recognized—the one with the wall of posters and all the shops she had found on her first day in Sow's End. This time, Sansa understood the rope and leather store a little better. It wasn't some sort of farmer's warehouse—everything they sold was meant to be used on people. 

_During sex._

Sansa blushed the entire time they were inside, and Sandor took _so long_ looking around. Every time he picked up a new abstract tangle of leather and silver buckles, he'd turn to Sansa, sizing her up with a hungry stare. He even plucked a pair of leather cuffs off the wall and tried them out on her wrists. She could have died, simply sunk into the floorboards and made peace with the Stranger six feet below. 

The shop girl didn't pay them any mind. She flipped through a small paper leaflet and sucked loudly on a mouthful of sourleaf. She didn't even look up when Sansa came over to the big glass display case in front of the register. The case was full of collars, the kind that ought to be used on dogs, but were certainly intended for people. Most of the collars had thick leather bands and tall metal spikes, but a few were more delicate. Sansa liked one in particular—a half inch band of black leather with a golden heart charm dangling from its center. 

She set her fingertips to the glass—oh, she wanted it—but the black spider pulled her hand back. She was already pushing her luck. 

So they left empty handed. They walked for a little while longer, catching stares on every street. But around the next corner stood the soot black sept. It towered, throwing a thick shadow over the whole block. Bass boomed from beyond an iron-clad door three times Sansa's height. Like a ruby heart, it pulled her in. She stopped at the door and craned her head. She remembered the sept from her first visit to Sow's End, but she hadn't noticed the near invisible lettering: dark iron on black slate. Sansa squinted to make it out. 

_The Black Cell._

So this was a dungeon. But how on earth could a sept be a dungeon? 

"Let's go in," she told Sandor, reaching for the door. But her other hand was still trapped in his. He gave it one strong tug and she staggered back to face him. 

"What?" she huffed. 

"Sansa," Sandor snarled, throwing an agitated glance over his shoulder. "Don't." 

Sansa frowned; Sandor's grip on her strengthened. But she wasn't afraid of his fingers clenched around her own, not anymore. So she went on, "I _liked_ the rope. I want to go in, I'll be so good." 

But Sandor barked back, "No, little bird. I'm not palling around with the daytime crowd, and that's that. _We're going._ "

He turned and pulled Sansa's wrist so fiercely her bones popped, but she dug in her booted heels. He had no right to be cross with her. She was a woman grown, a Stark, a lady, and she could do as she pleased. But when Sandor put his sharp eyes on her and plucked her by the waist, she became a little bird in an instant, snared in a steel trap. 

Sandor half-dragged, half-carried her into the nearest alleyway, his breath coming out in ragged fumes. He backed her against a sickly cold stone wall, caging her in with an arm on either side of her waist.

"What part of no," he rasped, "do you not understand?" 

His jaw clenched so tightly his entire face shook. Sansa's reflection danced in his eyes like flame; he was burning. Her heart fell. She wasn't a good bird—she had made a scene, on the street, for no reason. That wasn't how ladies behaved, even if their escort was a disfigured dog. They were noticeable. They were unlikely. 

_It shouldn't be_ , came a voice from the furthest reaches on her heart. But she banished that thought, pushed away a looming tear, and whispered, "I'm sorry." 

A ragged sigh spilled out all over her. Sandor kissed her forehead, then the tip of her nose, and then he lingered on her lips. "You're fine, little bird," he breathed. "I'm sorry I lost my temper. If you truly want to go, we'll make a date of it another night." 

"I'd like that."

Sansa swept away the dark hair that hung over his scars. She cupped them, and ran her thumb along mottled black skin that barely clung to muscle and bone. _My handsome hound_ , she thought, and she smiled up at him. They hovered in each other's air until Sandor's breath steadied. He hoisted himself up from the wall and grumbled, "Let's go home. I'm sick of being out." 

"Is it too much?" Sansa asked. 

"Aye," he answered, leading her away with a soft hand on her shoulder. "It's too much." 

They ended up stopping one more time. Halfway to Sandor's apartment, they passed by an open air Dornish market, thick with the scent of roasting meat and spice. Sandor groused to himself a bit—he was already goddamn hungry, and he didn't have much at the house. So they took a detour down the tight and smoky alleyway, crammed with rickety shop stalls. 

Sandor bought a whole rabbit on a spit, a dozen skewers of charred lamb, and a couple skewers of blistered peppers with cubes of white cheese for Sansa. He let her pick out some creamcakes from a baker, and then a bag of dried apricots from a produce stand. Then he picked up a whole basket full of lemons. "For lemonade," he told Sansa with a wink. She turned red as a roast hare. 

In the late afternoon, the sun hanging heavy on the tops of all the mismatched stone buildings, they arrived back at Sandor's place. They fell easily into ritual. Sandor hung up Sansa's backpack, she helped him wrestle off his boots, then he went to the kitchen for drinks. He returned with a bottle of beer and a glass of fresh lemonade, plus an overfull tankard of water for them to share. 

He started smoking hemp, of course. 

Sansa decided she would try it again, since it was just the two of them. She attempted her best puff so far, taking a huge breath and holding everything in until her lungs ached. Then she coughed and chased it all down with a few big mouthfuls of water. 

When Sandor asked what she wanted to listen to, Sansa requested Lady Forlorn's _Battle of the Seven Stars_. They had purchased a copy from the record shop, and Sansa was dying to learn about the namesake of her new t-shirt. Sandor fixed the record, and the room crackled to life with the sound of an electric guitar that droned like a dark, rolling tide. Sansa dropped her head into Sandor's lap while he finished up their joint. He ran his fingers through her hair over and over, and Sansa drifted away. 

She stood in a wide open field. A cool mist settled over the yellow grasses, as it always does on the dawn of battle. Sansa knew this battle—the battle of the Old Gods and the New. Like every young lady, she learned the story in history class. The Old Gods fought with bough and thunder, stone and rain. The New Gods fought with steel. 

The New Gods won. 

Both sides frightened her when she was a girl, but now Sansa felt the anguish of the Old Gods. Their rage was the guitar, melody breaking into discord, no resolve. It ground into Sansa's bones like an iron hammer. She should never have been afraid of the Old Gods—they had suffered the most. 

"How," she whispered. She had meant to keep that thought to herself, but Sandor's hand stopped midway down her curls. His eyes found hers.

"Do you like it?" 

Sansa nodded, and Sandor's right hand came to cradle her cheek. Sansa held him there. As the battle wore on, she prayed. _I'm not afraid_ , she told the Gods. _I know who you are._ They were Father's Gods, and his father's Gods, and his father's, and his, as far back as the first man. They were a northern lady's Gods. They were the Stark's Gods. 

They were Sandor's Gods, too. 

When the clangor of the electric guitar faded back into mist, he asked, "What did you think?" 

"I loved it," Sansa hummed. "I love Lady Forlorn." 

"I'm glad," he replied. "You can put on whatever you like next." He pushed to his feet, tossed his arms up into a mighty stretch, and grumbled, "I need to lift." 

He left Sansa cold on the couch—rude. She peered over its back in uncomfortable half-repose. 

Sandor had already picked up two massive iron dumbbells and begun to put his big biceps to work. With every repetition, they strained against his sleeves, desperate to rip the seams in two. Sansa watched for a while—his physique was mesmerizing, a true feat of nature—but eventually she got bored. 

"I thought we were going to spend time together," she said, setting her chin on the wood edge of the couch and putting on her best frown. It was useless on Sandor of course. Through bursts of heavy breathing, he came back with, "We are spending time together. You're a smart girl, I bet you can keep yourself busy." 

Sansa frowned for a minute longer, then figured out how to make Sandor's words come true—his Silvertongue. The guitar sat in its stand in the corner of the room, amidst a pile of cords with a small amp box just beside it. She had only tested out an electric guitar once, at Danny's. She would have gotten that pretty Orland, if she hadn't discovered the Minimarq on the same day. 

Now was as good a time as any to try her hand again. 

So she shuffled over to the guitar, checked her lines, fiddled with the knobs on the amp, then switched it on. Sandor paid Sansa no mind, grunting away in his corner, as she tuned the instrument and began to finger her first chords. They were similar enough to the lute, and besides, Sansa _was_ a smart girl. She'd had an ear for pitch before she could even talk—her mother had always told her so. 

As Sansa wove the chords into melodies, she walked the room, a black snake of cord following wherever she went. She fancied herself a traveling bardess, come to Ser Clegane's stronghold to share the songs of ages past. She started in on Florian and Jonquil, clumsy at first, but then slipping into the song as easily as a well-worn glove. 

On her tenth pass by the bookshelves, a bright red binding caught her eye. Two languages, embossed in silver, ran along the spine— _Songs of Old_ in the common tongue, and the runes of the old tongue just below. Naturally, Sansa plucked the book straight from the shelf. She stepped over to the couch, propped the Silvertongue at her side, then peeled the cover open. 

The book was beautiful. On each page there was a song scrawled in ancient runes, with black and white illustrations for accompaniment. There were spreads of forests, lakes, and mountains, riddled with magical creatures—children of the forest of course, then unicorns, sea snakes, and big hairy giants. Each song was its own adventure into the Age of the First Men. 

The only problem was that the book didn't list a single word in the common tongue. Sansa huffed—how would she ever learn the songs of the Old Gods without the words? 

Sandor came from behind, looming over her like a dark tree. "What's the matter?" he asked, wiping his brow with a damp t-shirt sleeve. He was all sweat now, no trace of spiced soap remaining. 

"I can’t read the runes," she fretted. She ran her fingers over the point of a unicorn's horn. "The songs look pretty enough, but I want to _hear_ them." 

"Make some room," Sandor said, circling around to sit at her left. He took up the book, and flipped through to a page that depicted a girl with plaits down to her hips, bundled up in a thick, fur-lined cloak. He thrust the book at Sansa, then took up the guitar. 

"You’ll know this one, " he said. “I’ll get us started, but you’ll figure it out.” 

As Sandor strummed each chord, he helped Sansa sound out the runes. They were similar enough to the letters of the common tongue, and even better, she already knew the song. It was _The Winter Maid_ , same tune and all, just in the language of the First Men. This was how her ancestors in the North would have sung it, when the Starks were their own kings. So Sansa sang along too, imagining herself as a Queen of Winter, draped in white furs, a direwolf sigil stitched proudly on her cloak. 

When their song finished, Sandor turned to another page. This one had a more gruesome picture—a great big knight burying a dark dagger into the chest of a white walker, wisps of hair sprouting from its gaunt skull, eyes white as stars. 

Sansa recognized the song as soon as Sandor began to play it. 

_The Night That Ended_.

Her father’s favorite. 

Sansa's heart froze to solid ice. She turned her head stiffly to Sandor. He sang. He sang like Father had, low and rumbling, though his voice was much deeper and dark as night. That was what Sansa felt: the cold, the darkness. A long winter with nowhere to roost. She was a little white wolf, on a snowbright field that disguised black fathomless depths below. One misplaced paw, and she would slip through to nothingness. 

Her family would be there, right where she put them. 

Sansa shattered with one heaving sob. _I don't want to drown_ , she thought, and she sobbed again, but caught it in her hands. "No, no, no," came a rasp at her side. Sandor pulled Sansa onto his lap and pried her face clear. He tried to wipe her tears with a rough palm, but they flowed on. Sandor rocked her. He curled his arms tightly around her and kissed the top of her head. He was as soft as Father. Sansa cried harder. She pressed her face into his already damp shirt to soak it with tears. "Shh, little bird. I've got you. We don't have to sing that song." 

"I killed them," Sansa wailed. "It's all my fault. I should have died." 

"No. No, little bird." Sandor picked up her chin and gave her a stern look. He brushed a string of snot away with his thumb. Sansa sniffed, and said through a trembling frown, "I told. I told Lady Cersei that Father kept the Old Gods, and the next day—the next day—I didn't even say goodbye." Her face scrunched as another series of pitiful peeps forced their way out. "The last thing I said—I said I hated his stupid Gods. I said I was glad the heart tree fell." 

Sansa collapsed back onto Sandor's chest. It was as thick as centuries of old growth, a sturdy trunk with a red heart that pumped red sap into strong limbs. A safe place for a little bird. She wept. It had been a long night, the winter. The winter lived on, in her sleep, in her scariest thoughts and most haunting nightmares. But it wasn't winter in Sandor's arms. She was warm, high above the snow-frosted ground. 

"It wasn't right what they did," Sandor said, gently running his hand through her curls. "To your family, to the weirwoods. I shouldn't have fought for the King."

"But you did," Sansa whispered. 

"But I left," he replied.

"How?" 

"Discharge. Bad leg. Bad mind." 

Sansa pulled up from Sandor's chest. She found his eyes. They shone like hers. "Bad mind?" 

"We fought with fire, sweet girl." He picked up her cheek and swept away the last of her tears. "I can't handle fire. They let me go." 

Oh. "I'm sorry," Sansa said. She slid Sandor's necklace from beneath his shirt and clasped the weirwood in her palm. A shame, that good men were sent to commit such terrible evil. "Do you think the Old Gods forgive?" 

"I don't know, little bird," he answered with a sigh. "I can only hope." 

"You promised you'd show them to me, remember?" 

"I remember." 

"Well, when?" 

Sandor's lips twitched to a smile. "Pick a date." 

If there was anything Sansa was good at, it was picking dates. She loved having places to be. So she smiled back at Sandor, and smeared her snot on his shirt, and leapt up to get her day planner. She snuggled back into his lap and flipped the booklet open. The perfect weekend jumped right out. "The Blood Moon!" she chirped. She put her finger on the day, and beamed up to Sandor. It would give her a whole moon to prepare. He smiled back. "Perfect," he said. 

Sansa scribbled a note and shut the planner, but a gilded sheet of paper slipped out—her invitation to the Warden's name day celebration. Sandor caught it midair. "Going to court, are you?" he asked. 

Sansa blushed. "Well—I probably should, but—" 

"I got one too. Used it to wipe my ass." 

"Sandor," Sansa gasped. She gave his chest a playful smack, then sheepishly asked, "Do you still have your papers?" 

"You mean am I still a Ser?" 

Sansa nodded. 

"That I am. Ser Sandor Clegane, at your service, my lady." Sandor winked and bent down to nip and Sansa's nose. She twisted away, but next his hand invaded for tickles. He went for her armpit, then her belly, and absolutely milked her for laughter. He was the silliest knight in the Seven Kingdoms! 

"Stop," Sansa huffed between giggles, batting meekly at Sandor's hand. "I mean it. I'm a _lady_." 

Sandor yielded. He decided to assault her with kisses instead. He planted them all over her face, even licked her, until the stiffness of her tears was long gone, and only a smile remained. 

"You are a lady," he said, putting one final kiss on her forehead. He lingered there. "And you're mine."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Tune in next week for Chapter Five: Spellbound. Sandor and Sansa go on a date to the Cell 🖤


	5. Spellbound

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa and Sandor visit the Black Cell.
> 
> Chapter track: [Dua Saleh - hellbound](https://youtu.be/STBjtb7KqYM)

Sansa loved being the Hound's girl. 

It meant they got to talk on the phone every single day. Sansa would creep out after the other girls had gone to sleep, curl up with the receiver in her favorite velvet armchair, and swap stories with Sandor until she drifted asleep. He would wake her back up eventually, when he got tired of listening to her breathe. 

Sometimes that would take hours. 

Then she would shuffle back to bed, careful not to wake Jeyne, and steal a few more hours of sleep. In the morning she would wake, bleary-eyed but still somehow energized, to face the new day. This was her new routine. 

If she didn't call from Hetherspoon, she'd call from the music building, Plumm Hall. Her two favorite hobbies were talking to Sandor and making new music, so it was nice to combine them both. Plumm usually cleared out shortly after dusk, which meant Sansa could lug the whole hand set into the practice room and show him all the songs she'd written for Wylla's house show. He was her biggest fan. 

On one of those late nights, shacked up in the practice room, they made plans for their first proper date. The room was rather small, so Sansa curled up in the corner, her knees pulled to her chest. Her backside had already gone numb from sitting so long, but she'd have to lose feeling in her entire body before hanging up on Sandor. 

Their plan was simple: dinner and a show. Dinner would be at the Golden Pit, a Meereenese restaurant that Sandor said was _better than decent_. The show would be at the Black Cell. Sandor didn't say much about what to expect, and when Sansa asked what she should wear he answered, "Whatever you like, little bird. Maybe that schoolgirl outfit, the one you wore the first time we met." 

So she picked that one, of course. She put on her black sweater with the bishop sleeves, her black pleated skirt, and her black boots. She added knee-high socks this time, for a little extra schoolgirl flair, knowing full well what it would do to Sandor. Her braids took her an entire hour to weave, but when she finished, two perfectly symmetrical milkmaid's plaits fell to her hips. 

Sansa didn't even second guess her appearance tonight. She _knew_ Sandor would make a meal out of her. 

When he met Sansa at the train station, he swept her up and backed her against the shabby wooden schedule board. He spent a good five minutes with his mouth on her, working over the skin on her face and neck, then pulling down the hem of her sweater to plant a few dozen kisses on her collarbones, too. His hands stayed under her skirt the entire time, entrenched in her upper thighs. 

For once, Sansa was glad that the Butcher's Station was very, very dark. 

Eventually they walked hand in hand to the Golden Pit. Like most places in Sow's End, Sansa had never seen, or smelled, anything like it. Soft candlelight filled up the cozy interior. The stone walls were draped in boldly patterned silks. There were no chairs, only bright cushions and teak low tables, topped with tealights in colorful glass bulbs. 

A dark-haired woman in a purple tokar led them to one of these tables in the furthest corner of the dining room, per Sandor's request. He slid to the backside of the circular table, and had Sansa sit right at his side. When their server, a young boy no older Arya, brought them menus, Sansa furrowed her brow. The wrinkled sheet of parchment contained an extensive list of dishes, each one written in Valyrian, Ghiscari, and the common tongue—far too many choices. 

She asked Sandor to help her pick, as long as she got to decide on dessert. He agreed.

In no time they had their drinks: a pale beer for Sandor, and a sparkling white wine for Sansa. She loved the wine. It tasted of fresh grapes, perfectly ripe, and the bubbles tickled her tongue with each sip. By the time the food arrived, she was already on her second glass. 

The food, well, the food was something else. Sandor demolished each dish as it arrived, eating honey locusts by the fistful, then an entire bowl of tomato goat curry, and a side of pickled yellow mushrooms. Sansa liked the carrot and raisin salad the best. She soaked up all the garlicky oil at the bottom of the platter with the warm flatbread that their server brought them by the basketful. 

"It's _prathya_ ," Sandor said about the bread, in between sloppy mouthfuls of curry. "Not to be confused with _chyatra_. Very different, little bird. Prathya is roasted in a clay oven, and chyatra's cooked on an iron griddle." 

Sansa didn't totally get the difference, but she ate the bread all the same. 

Sandor explained more about the food, and she listened diligently. But after another glass of wine, she couldn’t stop herself from bringing up their trip to the mountains. They would be staying at Sandor's keep for two whole nights! “The keep isn’t much,” he kept saying. “It’ll be more Oldstones than Casterly Rock.” 

Sansa didn’t care if they slept naked in the mud, as long as she had Sandor for company. 

She told him as much, and he had a nice, long laugh. 

The best part of dinner was dessert—poached pears in coconut cream. Sansa knew as soon as she saw it on the menu that she had to have it. Caramelized pears swam in a thick sauce of honey and sweet wine, all atop chilled coconut cream. Each bite melted in her mouth and made her taste buds sing. 

After the last spoonful of pear, she slumped onto Sandor. "That was delicious," she sighed. 

"I'm glad you liked it, sweet girl." He set a palm on the back of her plaits and planted a kiss on top of her head. "I have something else for you." 

Sandor reached into his back pocket and pulled out a black velvet box tied with gold ribbon. When he held it out to Sansa, she straightened up. 

"Can I open it now?" she asked. 

"Of course, little bird. Go on." 

Sansa took the box and tugged the shiny ribbon loose. When she lifted the lid, she gasped. A black collar with a golden heart charm sat atop a satin cushion. It was the very same one she had seen at the leather shop and chastely abstained from buying. 

"Oh, Sandor," she breathed, setting a hand to her chest. "You shouldn't have." 

"But I did," he came back. "Open the locket."

A locket? Sansa hadn't realized the charm was a locket. With shaky fingers, she prised open the clasp, and her mouth fell open. 

A hand-penned portrait of a black hound stared back at her. It was tiny, no bigger than her thumbnail, with crosshatched lines as fine as hair. Sansa would have expected a picture of Sandor of course, but somehow a drawing struck her as even better. No boy had ever made art for her. Pictures, yes. Joffrey had given her plenty of pictures of himself. But a drawing?

It must have taken Sandor hours. Hours he would have spent thinking of her. 

Sansa looked up to him, stunned. 

The burnt half of his lips twitched up to a smile. "For my girl," he said. "Let's put it on." 

Sandor eased the collar from the box, and Sansa swept aside her plaits so he could fix the golden buckle at the back of her neck. She liked the feel of leather curled around her throat, weighed down ever so slightly by the golden charm. When she set her fingertips to it, her heart swelled. There was nothing to do but throw her arms around Sandor's thick middle and find his heart, too. It thumped against her cheek, quick and strong. Twice as strong as hers. _My ruby_ , she thought. _My living gem_.

It took a second, but Sandor's arms landed around her. He tucked her head beneath his chin and breathed deep. "You didn't say if you liked it, little bird." 

"I don't _like_ it," she mumbled into his chest. "I _love_ it." 

Sansa left the Golden Pit full-bellied, her cheeks rosy from three glasses of wine. Sandor guided her down the street with his arm slung around her shoulders. Sow's End crawled in the night. A trio in patchy clothing battered unfamiliar songs on drums made of stretched alligator skin. Dozens of mustachioed men gathered outside a cafe to smoke cigars and shout over a radio broadcast of a football game. Punks filled in the gaps. They hid in alleyways and blasted metal from portable stereos, or posted up on empty curbs with double tall cans of Blue Rose partially sheathed in paper bags. 

People parted as Sandor and Sansa passed. Some stared, but when Sansa smiled, they smiled back. _These could be my streets too_ , she thought. 

As long as she had her hound by her side. 

He was more than _by her side_. He was above her and over her like a mighty oak. Sansa sheltered in his hold as they walked, and she nearly forgot— 

The Black Cell.

Heavy bass lured them to the entry of the towering black sept. Sound and light pulsed from two-stories tall stained glass windows, cut with mosaics of rainbow demons, horned, fanged, and scowling. Torches blazed in iron sconces along its slate facade. It was alive in the night. 

Sansa shrunk into Sandor, and he helped her inside. 

Thick clouds of spiced incense smacked her in the face. Incessant bass swallowed her heartbeat and shook her down to the bone. Sansa blinked back tears, waved away the smoke, and knew—this was no true sept. 

Seven black marble columns shot up from the floor to a domed glass ceiling, high as the sky itself. Each column was carved with a pile of skulls at its base, and winged bats at its capital. Wights, demons, dragons, hellhounds, and shrykes were cut the archways in between. The marble creatures seemed to moan and snarl in the flickering torchlight. 

Oh, the Seven would absolutely despise this place. They would especially hate that instead of their likenesses in the seven points, there sat great marble plinths, each one topped by a dancer. They wore costumes the likes of which Sansa had never seen, like mostly-nude medieval gaolers, or perhaps prisoners. Small leather cutouts covered their most private parts; chains dangled from their hips and shoulders, and in some cases, their nipples. Was it rude to stare? Sansa was definitely staring. The sparsely-dressed dancers gyrated as if they were, well, _making love to the air._

Sandor pulled Sansa through the smog and music and the crush of bodies. It was a dense sea of black clothing, black makeup, and sparkly piercings. Sansa fit in somewhat, though she'd need dark lipstick, a few tattoos, and a nose ring to look the part. Uncle would hate that. Sansa tried to think if she would, too. 

Sandor brought her to the bar and ordered. He got a stout glass half-full of liquor, and put a glass of clear liquid in Sansa's hand. "Seltzer," he shouted over the roaring bass. Perfect—it was far too hot for more wine. Sansa felt her sweater sticking to her armpits already. She almost envied the nudity of the dancers! Sandor took her to the Stranger's corner of the sept. A dark marble bench wrapped around the alcove, with round tables set every few feet. Sandor claimed one and pulled Sansa in close. 

So this was a dungeon. Sansa was in a dungeon. It wasn't so scary. It was like the Den, but bigger, smellier in a good way, and honestly, prettier. The marble surfaces were smooth and polished; there were no cobwebs in the corners, or grime on the windows. And their dancer, the Stranger, was simply baffling. Everyone knew the dark god was neither man nor woman, and so too was the person on the marble pedestal before them. They had long black curls to their chest, but they had a flat chest, a wide waist, and a soft belly. They wore a tiny leather skirt that swished as they rolled a dragon glass skull along their arms, as fluidly as a river. 

Sansa could have watched the Stranger forever, but torches burst to life in the center of the sept. They circled around the biggest stage of all: a massive seven-sided jut of dark marble at least five feet tall. A heavily muscled man wearing patent leather from the neck down pushed up the steps, towing something on a leash behind him. 

A woman. 

A _naked_ woman. 

Sansa's mouthful of seltzer spurted gracessly back into her glass. 

But no one else seemed surprised as the man tugged the woman across the stage. He made gestures and she performed tricks. She sat, and rolled, and fetched. Then the man had her kiss his boots, and nuzzle his rather obvious erection. Sansa turned beet-red when the man unzipped his pants and took the _whole thing_ out. 

He made his pet do all sorts of things to him. In _public_ , on a _stage_. Sansa could only watch for so long before she buried her face in Sandor's armpit. 

And of course, Sandor laughed at her. His chest bounced and jostled her head. Sansa stayed put, stewing in her prudishness. Sandor liked this, Seven forbid. He liked watching people have sex, and he liked making her suffer through it with him. 

She only looked up at the sound of a loud shout. 

"Oy, Hound." A stocky, squash-faced man in a studded leather jacket staggered towards them, and Sandor tensed so fiercely that he pushed Sansa away. The man stopped at their table and leaned in close. 

"It's been a while you old dog," he called over the music. "Listen, do you want to buy any—" 

Sandor shot up to standing and hoisted the man over the table by his collar. He put the man's forehead to his and snarled, "I'm with my girl, you daft fucking cunt. Make use of your eyes next time, or I'll have them out for good." 

Sandor shoved the man hard enough that he toppled onto his back and skidded across the floor, parting and startling the crowd. Countless cruel eyes landed on Sandor. He cut them all down with a much sharper stare, then dropped back to the bench, still fuming. 

"Who was—" 

"Don't start, little bird." 

Sandor gave her the same look he had given everyone else, so she stayed quiet, thinking of what kinds of things he would buy. Records, or drawings, perhaps. But why would that make him so angry? 

Another intruder came to their table, a much prettier one. She stood nearly as tall as Sandor in platform boots and a flowy floor length gown, slender as a willow, her mahogany skin glowing. When she pulled up a chair and took a seat across from them, Sandor didn't tense up. 

"Sandor Clegane," she purred, her plush lips pulling to a smirk. "We've gone far too long without your company. Who's your pretty friend?" 

When a pair of soft amber eyes met Sansa's, she blushed, but managed, "I'm Sansa. What's your name?" 

"Amayana," the woman answered. "A pleasure. Tell me Sansa, how do you like our club?" 

"Um, well—it's quite, um— _impressive_." 

Both Sandor and Amayana got a laugh out of that, and Sansa's cheeks grew even hotter. What on earth was she supposed to say? There was a girl on leash a few dozen feet away, totally naked, with an angry red cock in her mouth. It wasn't horrible, but it was certainly something she would never forget. 

"The little bird is a proper lady," Sandor put in, swirling his glass of rye. "But when she blushes, it means she likes it." 

Regrettably, that made Sansa blush even more. 

Amayana clicked her nails on the table. They were long and pointed, painted metallic silver like five miniature daggers. When Sansa looked up, Amayana was smirking. She reached out and lifted Sansa's hand from her glass, then spread her palm wide. She sunk a single sharp nail right into its center. Sansa's breath caught and electricity fizzled up her spine.

"Tell me, Lady Sansa," she said, twisting her nail deeper. "Do you wish to confess?" 

"Um…." 

Sansa looked to Sandor. He took her hand back from Amayana. "Not tonight," he growled. He knit their fingers together and stowed them atop his thigh. "She's been a good little bird."

Amayana floated up to standing. "Some other time, then," she called down to them. "We'll have a booth ready." 

With a swish of silk wisps, she was gone. Sansa turned to Sandor. 

"A booth?" 

"Another time, little bird," he told her. "Another time." 

Sansa didn't press the issue. She sipped her drink, and tried very hard not to look at the stage. But when loud smack and a scream echoed through all seven chambers of the Cell, she had no other choice. 

It was worse this time. Much worse. 

The pet must have made the man mad. She was on all fours before him, her round bottom rosy red, because the man was hitting her. He spanked her with black paddle, over, and over, and over again. The woman's sounds were as wild as a harpy's wail. Every time she cried out, Sansa gripped Sandor's hand even tighter. 

"He's hurting her," she fretted aloud. 

"Not quite, little bird," Sandor answered, nonplussed. "She's learning a lesson." 

Sansa's brow furrowed. _Learning a lesson?_

Then she realized. 

The woman broke the rules. She was supposed to be a good pet and do as the man told her, but she had misbehaved. Why on earth would she misbehave if she knew the consequences? Sansa knew better. No one had ever spanked her—she avoided punishment like the bloody flux.

Who in their right mind _wanted_ to be hurt? 

Who in their right mind liked this? 

Sansa's heart clenched when she realized she already knew the answer. Sandor watched the stage with an unwavering stare, flame dancing in his eyes. Overcome by curiosity, Sansa inched their intertwined hands further up Sandor's leg. 

Then she went a little further up. 

And further. 

And just _that much_ more. 

Sansa's blood ignited when she grazed the edge of his hardness. Of course Sandor liked this—he wouldn't be the one to get hurt, he'd be the one _teaching the lesson_. 

Sansa had blushed a lot since she met Sandor. No one else in the whole world knew how to tease out her bashfulness like he did. But when he slid Sansa's hand all the way over the stiffness in his jeans, her blood steamed straight out of her skin. She was nothing but a crimson fog by the time he looked down on her, lips curled to a predatory grin. _No one in their right mind likes this_ , Sansa thought. _So I must truly be mad_.

As the show wore on, she stayed hot. She couldn't hear her pulse, but Seven forbid, she felt it. Her lace panties clung to her flower, slick with dew. She crossed and uncrossed her legs, hoping desperately to trap it all in, but the cool marble beneath her bare bottom only grew hotter and damper by the minute. 

At the very least, she knew Sandor was suffering the same. Her held her palm on his bulge for the entire show, until the man gave the woman a big kiss, a biscuit, and plenty of pats to her head. He led her off stage, and they disappeared into the crowd. 

Just as soon as they had left, a new performer pushed up the steps, lugging a great wooden crate by a chain. It was a woman in skintight leather and thigh-high boots with heels of sharpened steel. After she dragged the crate to centerstage, she hoisted the lid, and began tossing cables to and fro. A series of invisible hands connected all her lines, and she began to play. 

She had a turnable! Sansa strained to make out the equipment, but she was sitting much too far away. She leapt from the bench and tried to pull Sandor up, too. "I need to get closer," she said, two small hands tugging feebly on one of his. "I want to see what she's playing." 

"I'm not going up there," Sandor grumbled. "I hate crowds." 

He hated crowds? That was stupid—he was a musician. The Den was nothing _but_ crowds.

So Sansa tried harder. "Please," she begged. "Pretty pretty please." 

"I said _no_." Sandor jerked his hand away and Sansa toppled back. She gave him a wounded look. He glared for a minute, then tersely said, "It's too much." 

Oh.

Sansa's heart fell. She didn't want to be sad, but she frowned down at her boots anyway. Didn't he like music? Didn't he like Sansa enough to stay by her side? Sandor picked up her hand and gave it a squeeze. "Come now, little bird," he said. "You go on up there. Take as long as you want. I'll be right here." 

Sansa beamed. "Truly? You promise?" 

"I promise." 

Sandor pulled Sansa down into him for a drawn-out kiss, then sent her on her way. 

She cradled her golden locket as she slipped to the front of the great marble stage. The woman spinning records caught Sansa's eye and smiled. Sansa smiled back. The block script logo on her sturdy black turntables: _DNZO_. Imagine, a pretty girl playing a radio quality machine! She had the softest golden eyes, a round face like a doll, and two puffs of black curls on her head that glowed like clouds in blue moonlight. 

Best of all, she was making _new_ sounds. Sounds Sansa hadn't heard before. The bass scraped low against the marble floors, like an iron ball tethered by a chain. Sansa swore she saw the columns shake and the panes of stained glass quiver and quake. The sound seeped into her blood, and she danced. You have to dance a new dance for new sounds, of course. Sansa matched the bodies beside her—her head bobbed, her hips swayed, and her arms went up, twisted toward the ceiling. 

Sansa lifted her chin, too. The ceiling was the sky, a big black beyond. The light of the moon and the stars kissed her. The bass carried her. She lost her own weight. The Seven were nowhere to be found—no frowning Gods here, up so high. _Only me_ , Sansa thought. 

She danced herself sticky. She elbowed men who got too close. She joined a circle of girls who complimented her braids and sweater. She took a puff of an offered joint, and a sip of sparkling pink wine. "Who is she?" Sansa asked, glancing to the Lady DJ. The answer: _Missandei_. 

Sansa could have listened to her play for an eternity. 

But at long last, the music faded, the crate was repacked, and the torches extinguished. 

Sansa tiptoed to see above the packed sept floor. Sandor sat in the same spot, in the Stranger's far off corner, reclined in the shadowy alcove. His eyes met Sansa's immediately. His eyes might not have left her the entire time, the way he stared—steadfast, wolfish, _in wait_. He had a hand cupped over his square chin, and ran his thumb along the edge of his jaw. 

Slowly, gaze unwavering, he pulled that thumb down the hollow of his throat. 

_Time for bed._

Sansa braved the crowd, unapologetic in her use of her elbows and arms to part one body from the next. Her brashness drew attention. As she moved, people cleared from her path. Eyes went from her, across the sept, to her destination: her hound. She stood taller, chin up, locket high and sparkling in the torchlight. She belonged. 

Sansa grinned. Sandor grinned back. 

They broke from the Cell into the blackened streets. Sansa curled herself around Sandor's arm, resting her head above his elbow. Their walk was unhurried. Sandor didn't mind stopping and listening to the musicians on each corner. First they listened to the drummers. Later on, there was a man playing Pentoshi sitar, and further on a blind woman singer, with a voice deep and rich as amber honey. The musicians knew Sandor. He gave each of them a palmful of coins, even though he was just a dockhand. He said they didn't have a house, any of them, but they still needed to eat. Sansa agreed.

She nestled close to Sandor. What safety there was, being a part of these streets. Being known. Lots of people knew Sandor in Sow's End, and it made Sansa wonder— 

"How often do you visit the Cell?" 

She peered up at him, and he gave her a half-smile in return. "Often enough." 

Sansa had heard that answer before. She realized she was asking something different. "But the girls there, do you—" 

"Do I fuck them?" 

Sansa blushed. She wasn't going to ask that _out loud_. It seemed sad, sleeping with prostitutes. Uncle abhorred the trade—he donated regularly to the campaign against it, the Coalition for a Wholesome Westeros. But the girls at the Cell seemed happy, and they were all marvelously pretty. Still, Sansa was too embarrassed to reply. She shrugged instead, and looked down to the two sets of boots working across the cobbled path. 

"The answer is yes, little bird. I've got an appetite." 

"But they're not _your_ girls?" 

Sandor stopped and faced Sansa. He wrapped his palms around her neck, and pushed her chin up with his thumbs. "They're not mine, Sansa. You're my first girl." 

Sansa's heart missed a beat. "Really?" she asked. 

"Really." 

Sandor stroked along Sansa's jawline, and she held his wrists to make sure he stayed. He wasn't smiling, so she did. She had already had a boyfriend, which meant she was more experienced than him. She knew more than he did. She would prove it. So she told him, "I'm a really, really good girl." 

That got Sandor to smile his full white smile. He leaned down to put a kiss on Sansa's forehead. "I know," he said, lingering with his soft black hair lapsing at her cheeks. "And I've got another present for my good little bird." 

"What is it?" Sansa peeped. 

"A surprise," Sandor replied. His thumbs dropped to stroke the slender band of leather around her throat. His eyes flashed their hunger. "I think it'll go quite nicely with your collar." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Chapter Six: Bird and Boss coming up next. 
> 
> 'Til then!


	6. Bird and Boss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa is a good pet, the very best pet.
> 
> Chapter track: [Mr. Carmack - misha is fucking pissed](https://youtu.be/2XXucGiXyFw)

The minute the apartment door closed, Sandor had his hands on Sansa. He went for her plaits first, curling a fist around each one and tugging them to lift her head. Then came his mouth, teeth sharp on her bottom lip, greedy as ever. His feral sounds filled up her lungs, one rumbling breath at a time. 

Sansa gasped when her backside collided with the arm of the sofa, but Sandor caught her waist to keep them pressed together. Sure hands untucked her sweater and dipped beneath to cup her breasts. He might have wanted to rip them clean off, with all the strength he used mashing and twisting until her nipples were two swollen rosebuds cloaked in lace. 

"It's been too bloody long," he growled at her ear. "I ought've had my way with you at the station." 

Sansa mewled, but the sound only stoked Sandor's appetite. He shed Sansa’s layers until she stood in nothing but her bra, her panties, and her schoolgirl socks. 

Sandor drank her in, deep, his forehead pressed to hers. 

"Gods, these are pretty," he said, sliding a finger beneath her waistband. "Where do you get all your pretty things?" 

"Um, well—" Sansa looked down at her matching night-blue underwear, patterned in sheer lace moonblooms that left little to the imagination. "This set is from my uncle, from a shop in Myr. He says it's the finest in the whole city." 

When she looked back up, Sandor's nose rumpled as though he'd smelled something rotten. He disentangled himself from Sansa, and a punishing chill ran down her spine. 

"Your _uncle_?" Sandor's eyes ran over her skin as if he intended to peel it from her bones, and not for pleasure. The unspoken threat made her jaw tremble. 

_I'm not his,_ Sansa wanted to say. But all she got out was, "My uncle—when my mom died, and my aunt—he was all I had. He—he just wanted me to have nice things. There was no one else, and he just wanted—" 

"That's enough," Sandor snarled. "Get that shit off of you." He gestured, but he wouldn't touch her now. "Buy yourself something better." 

Sansa doubted she could find something better quality than what Silken Spirit had to offer, but she was certainly old enough to choose her smallclothes. She wouldn't even have to tell Uncle Petyr—she'd simply put on his favorite set the next time he came to visit. 

_But I'm not his,_ Sansa told herself again. _I belong to Sandor._

When she had taken off the offending garments, Sansa came to where Sandor had retreated on the sofa. She settled on her knees, between the toes of his boots, to make extra sure he knew where her loyalties were. She smiled at him, the cherry on top. 

His scowl softened. "Good girl," he said down to her, picking up her cheek. "Are you ready for your other present?" 

Sansa gave an eager nod. 

Sandor reached into his back pocket and took out a small bundle of leather cord with a golden clasp on its end. When he unfurled the cord to its full length, clutching it by a looped handle, Sansa gulped. 

_A leash._

Oh, Seven forbid, she should have known. She should have expected this, and still, heat descended on her like a flood, filling her cheeks and pooling between her legs. Even more predictably, the carnivorous glint returned to Sandor's eye, and his half-burnt lips pulled to a smirk. 

"I think the little bird likes it." He took up her locket and hooked the leash to her neck, then gave it a test tug to win her eye. "And she's quick to learn." 

Sansa's thighs tensed together. Sandor was _too good_. Not only could he read all her dirty thoughts, he was horribly nice. He knew what Sansa wanted to hear, and right now, she wanted to know that they were playing—that this was all a game. 

"I'm your pet," she said, because it was the new truth. 

Sandor's thumb brushed her lower lip, then pressed inside to trace her teeth. _A treat_. Sansa held him there, giving him her tongue in return. 

"That's right," he replied. "You're my little pet bird, and I'm in charge.” He pulled out from her mouth and dotted the tip of her nose with his spit-soaked thumb. “You're going to do exactly as I say." 

"Everything?" 

"Everything." 

"What if I don't want to?" 

Sandor shifted his seat, exhaling deep and stretching his boots beside Sansa's hips to trap her in. "We're not saying no tonight, little bird." She must have looked as trapped as she felt, because Sandor went on, "We're going to use a new word for no. If it's too much, you're going to say _nightshade_. Do you understand?" 

"Nightshade," Sansa repeated, to try it out. "But what happens if I say no?" 

Sandor jerked the leash up and dropped to meet her halfway. "If you say no to me tonight, sweet little pet, there will be consequences." 

The reactionary _thump_ of Sansa's clit forced a whimper out of her. _Consequences._ She thought of the paddle, tender red skin, and shouts that reverberated deep in her bones. She decided right then that she would be a good pet, the best pet, the kind that never gets spanked at all—just like always. She would follow the rules, and be very, very good. 

She told Sandor as much, and he lowered her back down. "I believe you, little bird, so I'll tell you what you're going to do first—you're going to clean my boots." 

Sansa glanced down to the black leather monsters perched at either side of her. They were covered in fine brown dust, mud caked along the stitching. It was nothing a damp cloth couldn't fix, but when Sansa rose to fetch one, Sandor jerked her right back down. 

"Not so fast," he scolded. "You're going to use exactly what you have." 

Sansa froze—she didn't have anything, she was stripped down to her socks. Unfortunately, Sandor heard her thoughts. He pulled in his cheeks and loosed a great glob of spit right between his knees. It landed on the floorboards with a sickening splatter. 

Sansa frowned. She hated spit. 

But she hated Sandor's aggravated sigh even more. He didn't pull the leash hard; he gave it a devastatingly light tug, enough for her to surrender to his steel eyes. "I've worked hard today, little bird," he told her. "I worked myself to the bone. And you know what I did after that? I took you out. I treated you to a nice little dinner, and I even let you choose the dessert. I gave you sweet presents. I showed you the Cell—remember how you begged to go? That's what I did today. So this is what you're going to give me in return. This is _my_ present. Understood?" 

Sansa nodded, despite her reservations. He truly had worked hard. He had been so many places, and now, all those places were on his boots. Grime from the docks, the restaurant, the club, and the smelly streets of Sow's End. That was what Sansa was going to clean off. 

The word _no_ lingered on her tongue. 

But _no_ meant consequences. 

So Sansa puckered up, and she spit. She used her hands to smear the dirt crusted on dark leather. It took a lot more spit then she would have liked to loosen it all up. When her fingers got too dirty, she had no choice but to tug off one of her socks and use that, too. At least the sock made things easier. 

Her mouth was well and truly dry by the time his boots shone. She dropped the soiled sock and smiled up at Sandor. He smiled back. 

"Good girl." 

One of the black beasts stirred, moving from Sansa's side to rest between her legs. It split them all the way up until the very tip of his toe rested against her maidenhair. Then it inched closer, sneaking beneath her. When warm leather grazed her clit, Sansa was helpless. She mounted him, curled her arms around his calf, and she rode. 

Oh, it was such a sweet ride. 

She glided over the toe of his boot, using all her weight and wetness to give her pulse exactly what it wanted. Sandor was kind enough to help her. He angled his foot upward and held it rock steady. No matter how quickly she shifted, he supported her. He met her rhythm, rocking with her, because she had earned it. She was a very good pet. 

She was a slightly disappointed pet with Sandor shook her off and pulled out from her. He left his boot between her knees, glistening in the lamplight. 

"What a shame," he said with a click of his tongue. "You've gotten it all dirty again." 

When Sansa reached for her sock, he pulled the leash taut, and tossed her makeshift rag across the room. So she went for the _other_ sock, but Sandor got rough with her. He scooped up her wrist, stacked both of their hands atop her head, and pushed her all the way down, until her lips met sticky leather. 

"Clean up your mess, little bird." 

He didn't leave any room for _no_.

Sansa scrunched up her face, and frowned harder than she ever had before. He was _so_ gross. He was gross, but her mouth was opening up. Her tongue lapsed over the skin of the big, wild monster. She tasted her juices, and dust, and the bitterness of boot polish. She licked it all up, every last drop, until he was just as clean as before. 

Sansa did such a good job that she got a nice big smile, and extra praise that had her heart begging to crack her ribcage in two.

"You're so good with your mouth, little bird," Sandor said, palming the hardness in his jeans. "You're going to give me more of it." 

Sansa knew what he was asking for as soon as he began unbuckling. His cock came free, already stiff enough to stand on its own, though Sandor kept stroking it as he eased Sansa forward. She resisted slightly on instinct, but the collar dug into her neck, and she landed mere inches from the new beast, the big red one. 

Her favorite beast, admittedly. 

Sandor didn't even have to tell her this time. She pursed her lips, gathered up what she could, and released a great mouthful of spit on the tip of him. It slid down his length, but Sansa caught it with her tongue. She used her tongue the same way she used her fingers, running along his swollen veins, or sweeping along his favorite ridge. Her tongue was better than her fingers, sensitive enough to feel every throb and reach every corner of him. Her game became a conquest—she wanted to swallow his entire pulse. She had tried before and failed, but this time she was determined. She was going to do this all on her own. She groped for Sandor's hand, the one that wasn't tangled up in her leash, and she locked it up in hers beside his thigh. Then she brought her lips to his angry purple head, and she opened wide. 

It wasn't wide enough. 

She would never be wide enough, not truly. Sandor's girth squeezed past her teeth, stretching her jaw to its utter limit. Sansa took a second to gather her breath, to line up her tongue and feel his blood rage against her skin. He was throbbing _so hard_ , practically convulsing against the confines of her lips. 

There wasn't any room to smile, but somehow Sansa did. She smiled and dropped lower, pulling in a few more aching inches, enough to induce a growl so wild that Sansa glanced up to make sure she wasn't bedding an actual wolf. 

She wasn't, but you wouldn't know from the look in Sandor's eye. 

He wanted to devour her, but he couldn't, because she was the one with her mouth on him. She was the one who controlled his pulse. They both knew this. So as Sansa drew in more of him, she kept her smile, and she kept her eyes firm on his. 

Sandor had no choice but to let Sansa do whatever she wanted. She was a good pet though, and what she wanted was to treat him as nicely as he treated her. When her tongue found a spot he liked, she would stay there. When she got tired of that, she would take more of him in. His length worked further down her throat, so far her throat tried to push him back out. 

He liked that feeling best of all. His face drew in tight, the only noise he could make was a breathy, "Fuck." And he couldn't even hold himself upright, he had to slump back against the couch until his pulse settled back down. 

But as soon as he quieted, Sansa did it again. 

And again. 

And again. 

She would draw her mouth all the way to the tip of him, then drop back down as far as her throat would allow, far enough for all his dark hair to tickle her nose. The tickling made her giggle, and the giggle made Sandor's cock turn savage. His hand broke free from Sansa's grip, fumbled across her cheek, then latched onto one of her plaits. 

He didn't pull it, he just needed something soft to hold, because Sansa wasn't feeling merciful. 

She did both her tricks at once—her tongue _and_ her throat. Sandor squirmed the same way she did, bucking into her, breathing all funny. He couldn't even get a word out between all his rough grunts and panting. So Sansa went faster, chasing his pulse until there was nowhere left to go. 

She was so preoccupied with taming that silly beast that she forgot what happened when you won: _seed_.

Everything was magnified in her mouth, and this was no different. When his juices started shooting out of him, all hot and bitter, they sent Sansa flying up, too. He fell from her lips still alive with pleasure, a sticky white mess going all over his black shirt and jeans, then dribbling down to the base of him. 

When Sansa dared look up, she found dark eyes glaring right back. "Little bird," Sandor growled, kind enough to give her a warning. "Look at what a mess you've made." 

She opened her mouth to say, _No,_ **_you_ ** _made that mess_ , but a hand clamped her jaw. Sansa watched in horror as the other hand scooped up all the neglected seed, and drew closer. He was going to do it again; he was going to put that gross goop in her mouth and make her swallow. 

Sansa wasn't going to let that happen. She thought about saying _no_ , and she thought extra hard about _nightshade_. But when Sandor's fingers slid into her mouth, she knew there was only one option. 

She bit down, hard. As hard as she would have on a tough tea biscuit. 

She got what she wanted—Sandor's fingers, gone—but she knew immediately that she was in trouble. Sandor howled, jerking his hand back and dropping the leash to clutch at his wounded fingers. 

This was Sansa's only chance to escape. She scrambled to her feet to make for the hallway, but Sandor caught her socked heel and tried to tug her back. He would have succeeded if Stranger hadn't come bounding to his master's lap, pawing and whining. Sandor's grip loosened just enough for Sansa to slip right out of her sock and down the corridor. She had mere seconds to decide where to go. There were only three doors—the bedroom, the bathroom, and something else. 

She chose something else, prying open the door and sliding inside. She sealed herself in with a soft click, and listened. 

Sandor was grumbling to himself, or perhaps to Stranger, but Sansa only caught every other curse. She stayed quiet as a little mouse in her hiding place—small, dusty, and pitch black except for a strip of yellow light below the door. But eventually Sandor got to his feet. Heavy boot steps thudded across the squeaky floorboards towards her.

"Little bird…" It was sickly sweet, the softest of threats. The boots came closer. "Where did you fly off to, little bird?" 

Thankfully, they passed by Sansa's door. They disappeared into the bedroom, came back, then the bathroom door creaked open. There was a pause. 

And then they turned. 

_He was coming for her._

Sansa backed away from the door, but she bumped into something metal— _a shadow knight_. She gasped, then clapped a hand over her mouth, but by the time she realized it was just Sandor's old Kingsforce armor, it was too late. 

Two dark shadows settled in her strip of light. 

Sansa shuddered. Her clit ached so desperately that she stuffed her spare hand between her legs. _I've been bad_ , she thought, and for some reason that only made her shivers worse. 

"I know you're in there, little bird." 

Sansa pressed both her hands deeper onto herself, as if that would keep her whimpers and water in. When Sandor dropped a palm onto the door, a whimper broke loose. 

"It's time to come out. If you come out now, you won't get in trouble." 

He was giving her a choice. She could be the good pet she ought to be and surrender, or she could stay put and suffer the consequences. But she wouldn't be suffering, she would be _learning a lesson_. 

A solitary drop of dew trickled between Sansa's fingers and trailed down her inner thigh. She knew exactly what word to use if she wanted a lesson.

" _No._ " 

Oh, she loved the way it felt on her lips. She especially loved the exasperated grunt on the other side of the door, and the very long minute while Sandor had to figure out what to do with her. 

"Little bird," he tried again, his voice grave. "You need to come out, _now_."

"No," Sansa chimed. This _no_ was even more exciting, because it didn't mean stop. It meant _I want to keep playing_. 

"I'm going to count to three, and if you don't come out, there will be consequences." Sandor breathed in extra loud to let her know what was coming, then exhaled, "One." 

He paused to give Sansa a chance to yield. She didn't.

"Two." 

She didn't take her second chance, either. 

As soon as she heard the start of Sandor's, "Three," she reached for the doorknob. But he was much stronger, and yanked the door so hard that Sansa came along with it. His sharp eyes stunned her, just long enough for him to scoop her by the waist and carry her, chirping and fluttering, down the hall. 

He kicked open the bedroom door. Sansa tried to fight, feebly flapping her wings, but Sandor used his big muscles to wrestle her over to the bed. He sat on its edge and positioned Sansa on her belly, her backside arched over his lap. Sansa clawed the covers, but Sandor kept an iron-tight grip on her leash. He wouldn't let her escape again. Sansa knew all hope was lost when he used the leather cord to bind her wrists behind her. Any squirming forced the collar against her windpipe, poaching her breath until she was forced to give up. 

With her cheek mashed into the bedspread, Sansa peered back at Sandor. He caught her eye and grinned.

"It's time for your lesson, little pet." 

He was so soft it hurt. His tone, his eyes, and his hands, Seven forbid. He swept a broad palm over Sansa's head, down her plaits to her buttocks. His hand stayed there. 

_Warm._

And dangerously soft. 

Sansa whimpered into folds of velvet, but she had nothing to absorb the stickiness between her legs. It would soak straight through Sandor's jeans. She was a messy bird, trapped in the lap of a hungry giant, by a length of leather and one strong palm. 

She needed to know what he was going to do with it. 

"H-how many?" 

"How many?" Sandor smoothed over one buttock, then the next, sizing her up like a quarter of lamb. "The little bird wants to know how many. That's a good question. How many do you think you've earned?" 

That was easy—"Three."

"Why three?" 

"Because—because you gave me three chances." 

Sandor growled, and his fingertips sunk deeper into her flesh, deep enough for his nails to bite at her skin. "You're a clever little pet, aren't you? A naughty pet, but a clever pet. We'll do three." 

The longest seconds of Sansa's life passed her by. This was the part she would never have seen on the stage—the anticipation. Sandor's hand idled on her backside, a far too gentle omen for the storm to come. When he lifted off, Sansa's eyes squeezed shut. 

When his hand came thundering down, she cried out, but her sounds were an unholy blend of scream and moan—there was another invisible part of her lesson. 

_Pleasure._

The sting of Sandor's palm against her skin was a sweet ache, another melody for her blood to sing. Even better, the force of his blow ground Sansa against his thigh, giving her clit the most bittersweet taste of relief. She wanted more. 

But Sandor was making her wait. He brushed the site of his smack, teasing every sore nerve and coaxing a pitiful noise from Sansa's lips. She wished more than anything she could have stayed quiet, because Sandor's brow sunk over his piercing eyes. 

"The little bird likes it," he mused. "Do you want the next one?" 

Sansa frowned—he was doing it again, feeding all her shameful thoughts back to her. Even worse, she knew she had to answer for them. So like a good little pet, she whispered, "Yes, please." 

And Sandor delivered. Sansa quickly learned his first strike had been merciful. An unforgiving palm connected with the same patch of bare skin and sent her lurching forward. Sandor braced her by the collar to keep her from flying off his lap. Her pulse sung in her throat and glowed on her smarting backside, but it was the worst between her legs. She tried to thrust her thighs together, but they were already too slick. Her juices streamed out of her with each agonizing throb. 

Sansa's squirming only made her problems worse. Her legs rubbed against _him_ , and he was just as hot as her. The proximity was enough to drive her wild. 

"Please," she begged. "I need more." 

"Oh, little bird." Sandor swiped a finger along the inside of her thighs, extracting one long string of the stickiness within. "What trouble you are—biting, hiding, and now this. How can I be certain you've learned your lesson?" 

"I have, I promise, please. _Please_ , Sandor. I won't get into any more trouble. I'll be so good, and I'll do exactly as you say, and I won't— _oooow._ " 

The final blow put stars in Sansa's vision. It turned her skin white-hot, so hot it became cold, so cold that it went numb entirely. Her breath disappeared, leaving only her heartbeat. It screamed on her behalf. 

At her side, Sandor's cock lunged. 

"That's a good girl," he soothed, reaching to wipe away a tear from Sansa's flushed cheek. "Did you like that?" 

She could only manage the meekest of nods, but it was enough for Sandor. His hand worked between her thighs again, but this time he went further up, to the part of Sansa that needed his touch the most. "Do you know what good girls get?" 

"Treats," she whispered. Sandor smiled. 

"Exactly." 

Two strong fingers sunk into Sansa's dew, and she buried her moan in the covers. Gods, she had earned this. She would never tire of Sandor's hand, his rings pressed warm against her entrance. He found all the best spots—the spots that forced out more noises—and he massaged them until Sansa's belly filled with achy warmth. 

Sandor was doing exactly what Sansa wanted, until a wet glob of spit landed between her buttocks. Her eyes shot up to meet his, and he answered her silent worry with a full-fanged grin. He smeared the spit deeper down, and before Sansa could protest, his thumb pressed inside her. 

Not inside her flower.

_Above it._

Where it ought not to be. Where _nothing_ should be. 

There were so many things to hate about it. First of all, it was gross—so, so gross. But Sandor _liked_ being gross, which led to the second thing Sansa hated. The beast trapped beneath his jeans surged at her hip, thrilled by her disgrace, and her clit responded in kind, betraying her own arousal. 

What she hated most of all, though, was that it felt good. It felt so good that Sansa made a new sound, a pathetic sound, like a lame kitten starved for affection. And she was learning what her sounds did to Sandor. They turned him just as wild. 

His thumb went deeper. He held it steady as he began to plunge his fingers into her wetness. There must have been some wicked magic involved that made every stroke twice as electric, igniting every possible nerve, and Sandor knew. He bore into her, circling her walls, waiting for Sansa to gasp and then going even faster. 

Her backside ached, her skin on fire from Sandor's lesson, but even in her weakened state, she ground into his hand. She had to, because each roll of her hips pushed her against his thigh, giving her that much more release. She lost herself chasing her own pulse. She shouldn't have liked Sandor's thumb as much as she did, but he had it put there for a reason. It made _everything_ feel good. Warmth collected at her center and ballooned, until every touch rippled like liquid flame in her veins. 

"Sandor," she whined. "Sandor, please." 

"Go ahead, little bird. Come on my hand." 

So Sansa did. She let go of all her heat, blood ablaze, heart echoing in every corner of her body. 

She rested in white bliss, and came back with her damp face nestled in the velvet bedspread, her thighs trembling. But Sandor's warm palm was there to stay her. He rubbed her thighs and the sore skin on her backside. He whispered, "I’m here, little bird. I've got you." He undid the leash and massaged Sansa's wrists. Then he scooped her up in his arms and cradled her as gently as a fluff-feathered chick. He petted her plaits, pushed the rogue curls from her temples, and put countless kisses on the top of her head. 

Sansa no longer shivered. She melted into Sandor's chest the way leaves seeped back into earth. His dense muscle shrouded her. His musk was her atmosphere. So silly, that a smelly man could bring such comfort. Her lungs burst with spice and sweat and stink. Sansa pushed her nose to his shirt and dragged in even more. She took a fistful of his damp shirt. 

_My world_.

"Are you good, little bird?" 

Sansa's eyes fluttered open. She was surprised by the softness in Sandor's face. He was all harsh lines—a sharp jaw, hooked nose, strong brow. His scars were harsh, too. A living wound so grisly that it should have sent her running for the hills. But the way he looked on her was anything but harsh. His eyes flickered like distant stars, a bright comfort amidst a sea of darkness. 

Sansa nodded. "I'm good," she answered, trailing her fingertips down his shirt. But when she dropped too low, she frowned. "I made a mess." 

There was _such_ a mess. White splotches on black cotton, and worse, wet spots on his jeans. A big one on his thigh where Sansa had ridden his hand, and a smaller one just below his beltline. Sansa put a finger to it. "Did I do that one, too?"

Sandor laughed. "More or less." He took back Sansa's hand, kissed it, then set it on his scruff. "Don't worry about the mess, sweet girl. I'll clean up. I need you to tell me if there’s anything you need, anything at all.” 

“Anything?” 

“Anything.” 

Sansa thought of all the things she could possibly ask for, combing the sensations in her body. Her entire lower half ached from all her play. It was a good ache, but even so, she wouldn't need anything down there for a very long time. Beyond that, she realized something else. 

"I'm hungry," she told Sandor, setting a hand to her belly. "Can I have something to eat, please?" 

"Of course, little bird," he replied with a kiss to her forehead. "I'll be right back." 

He went off to the kitchen, but not before bundling Sansa up in her knit blanket and helping her settle on his pillows. His bed was almost as comfortable as his lap, and Sansa's eyes had just fallen shut when Sandor came back, a plate and cup in hand. He passed them off to her, and she beamed. Warm milk and a cream cake—a perfect treat! 

"Thank you," she hummed. "Can I eat in bed?" 

"As long as you don't spill on the sheets," Sandor said with a wink. 

Sansa blushed a bit, but he didn't pay her any mind. His idea of cleaning up was simply stripping off his dirty clothes and dabbing his sweat with a soiled shirt. He fell into bed next to Sansa and took her mug so she could eat. She couldn't stop smiling. It was too perfect. The cake, soft as silk, light as a cloud. A strong, handsome man by her side. A man who gave her cake and kisses and kind words. What magic there must have been that brought them together! He was a dark and welcome blessing. 

"That good, is it?" Sandor teased. 

"Mhm," Sansa replied. She swiped a fingerful of frosting from the plate and held it at his lips. "Open up." 

He complied, sucking Sansa's finger a little too clean before letting her back out. Then he stuck one of his great big fingers in the middle of the cake to pick up a whole sticky glob of it. "Your turn," he said, lifting the bite to Sansa's mouth. "No teeth this time." 

Sansa gave him a sheepish look. A string of dark red marks dotted his outstretched fingers, an unfortunate relic of her bad behavior. But she had learned her lesson, so she opened wide. 

The cake didn't make it into her mouth. 

Before she knew, Sandor shoved every last crumb onto her nose, _in_ her nose, so deep she had to breathe from her mouth. But breathing was impossible, because she gasped from the shock of it all, and then Sandor had her pinned. He did what he always did, working his mouth over every inch of her face as if it was made of sugar. Sansa squirmed, and giggled, and kicked as he used his tongue and teeth to tickle her half to death. 

But before she absolutely suffocated, he put his mouth over her nose and cleaned everything up. Then he gave her a vanilla-scented kiss and growled, "You taste so sweet." 

"You're much sweeter," Sansa chirped back. 

It was the wrong thing to say to a hungry beast, because Sandor buried his face in her chest and started in on her breasts, licking and nibbling until her nipples were puffed and raw. When he finished his feast, he stayed there, nose to her breastbone, arms tight around her waist. Into her skin, he grumbled, "Do you really mean that?" 

"Of course," Sansa replied, putting a kiss in the softness of his dark hair. "You're the sweetest man I know." 

Sansa slept soundly that night, woken only once to Sandor twisting restlessly at her side. He was having a bad dream, the kind that makes you groan and mutter. He went from his back to his belly, side to side, then finally stopped and shivered, turned away from Sansa. She reached out and rubbed slow circles into his damp skin.

"Shh, sweetling," she whispered. "It's just a dream. I'm right here." 

She must have chosen the right words, because Sandor calmed. His mutters turned to snores, and Sansa curled close, so her body pressed flush against his backside. As she kissed the sweat from his skin, she wove her spell again. _Sweetling, sweetling, sweetling,_ she thought. _I'm yours. I'm here._

It was true. She was Sandor's girl, and he was her sweetling, the sweetest man she had ever known. Sweeter than cake, and even sweeter than honey. He was as sweet as the stars on the clearest summer night, his warmth the warmth of a million flickering lights. They were countless and familiar. They hid by day, and only in set against vast black depths did they shine the brightest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Seven: A Better Lie coming next! 'Til then!
> 
> (PS did you spot the foreshadowing? Shhhh 🤫)


	7. A Better Lie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa spends a lonely day on campus.
> 
> Chapter track: [Frame - Bad Decisions](https://youtu.be/z2F10Q4c0Ow)

Professor Lefford passed Sansa the salmon pink slip of paper midway through her intermediate alchemy lab. All the girls knew what that shade of pink meant, so they giggled and whispered, and Sansa went red as an overripe cherry. 

She pretended to focus on the experiment at hand, something to do with soil types, but Jeyne ended up doing all the work for them. She was a considerate friend, a discreet friend, who didn't bother Sansa with questions while sweat seeped out from every corner of her skin. Her sweater was well and truly drenched when the clock struck noon. 

"Should I meet you back at—" was all Sansa heard before she shot out of the classroom, out of Brax Hall, and onto the quad. She wove through bodies and buildings, only brave enough to watch her own boots stomp along the grey cobbled path. If she had known about this meeting, she would have worn a much longer skirt, but it was too late now. 

Sansa arrived at the towering stone administrative building—a miniature castle in its own right—redder and sweatier than ever. The headmistress's assistant had Sansa take a seat in the lobby, so she perched as delicately as she could on the lip of a slippery, leather-upholstered chair. She nearly toppled straight to the ground when she heard her name called. 

"Sansa Stark," Headmistress Lannett beckoned. "Come with me." 

Sansa curtsied, smiled, and followed the golden-haired head of Oxcross College into her office. It was bigger than Sandor's entire apartment, the ceilings twice as high. Framed diplomas, pictures of campus, and family portraits of equally golden Lannetts lined the stone walls. The headmistress sat behind a pristine oak desk, totally clear except for a quill, a pot of ink, and a pile of sickeningly pink stationary. 

Sansa swallowed down her breakfast, and took another timid perch on a much slippier leather chair. The stuffed head of a lioness kept watch just behind the desk. When Sansa caught its glowering eyes, her porridge made a second attempt at escape. It took every ounce of courage to look at Headmistress Lannett instead. 

She was too pretty for her post. Her hair too blonde, her skin too smooth, and her green eyes far too sparkly. She had coiled what was certainly hip-length hair into a neat bun at the nape of her neck, and red satin covered the rest of her. Each tasteful piece of her jewelry was made of ruby and gold. 

Her smile was whiter than snow. 

"Sansa, my dear," she began. "You must be wondering why I've called you this afternoon." 

Sansa nodded, still afraid to part her lips. 

"Certain... _whisperings_ have been brought to my attention. Talk from students and the Campus Watch. It is my intention to put any rumors to rest." 

After Sansa delivered another nod, the headmistress went on, "You know full well I have to report any suspicious activity to your uncle. His endowment to our college this year was more than generous, and our plans for Baelish Hall are well underway. It is _imperative_ that we meet his expectations. Exceed them, even." 

Lannett paused to smile even wider. Sansa clenched her hands to stillness in her lap, though she wanted nothing more than to tear into her cuticles. The headmistress's smile didn't reach her eyes—they shone just like Uncle Petyr's, deceptively light. Sansa felt just as she did under his gaze, stark naked, fingers of black shadow crawling over her bare skin. _It's over_ , she thought. And then, _No, if it was truly over, Uncle Petyr would be here too._

"Would you like to know what has been said?" Lannett asked, unblinking. 

"Yes, please." 

"There's talk of trips into the city. Late night phone calls, and even later nights in the practice rooms. There may have even been an incident with a motorcycle, if our watchmen tell it true. This doesn't paint a very pretty picture, as I'm sure you know. But I feel kindly to you, so I'll give you an opportunity to explain yourself. Elsewise, I'll be forced to bring the issue to your uncle. Do I make myself clear?" 

"Yes, Headmistress Lannett." 

"Good. Now tell me, Lady Stark, what have you been up to?" 

This was Sansa's only chance. She had walked a thin line this past moon, and the path ahead was even thinner. One slip, and she'd lose everything. Though she hadn't been particularly cautious lately, her uncle had still taught her his art, the art of delicate words and sure feet on the thinnest of ice. She put her skills to use on him every time he called, and she'd use them again now. 

So Sansa smiled. She giggled, even, shaking her head and admiring her perfectly manicured nails. "It's so silly, really," she told her lap. "I think I might be the most foolish girl in all of Westeros." 

She looked up to find a curious look on the headmistress's face, one wrinkle between her two well-groomed brows. "What's silly?" she asked, pushing the words past bared teeth. 

"I'm trying to surprise him—my uncle. It's an impossible feat, I know, but I simply have to try." 

Lannett urged her on with a minute dip of her chin. 

"I've gotten a music teacher, you see, in Lannisport. Someone to give me extra lessons. I'm writing a whole album for my uncle, to surprise him on his nameday. Oh, it will be so wonderful when he hears just how much I've learned since coming to Oxcross. If I can truly surprise him, it will be the best gift I could ever give." 

Lannett's lips folded to a stern pucker. "Who is this music teacher of yours? You should be satisfied with Professor Turnberry." 

"It's, um—" Sansa fumbled for a name, any name. "Dayne. Wylla Dayne. With all respect to Professor Turnberry, Lady Dayne is one of the finest harpists there is. I sought her out as soon as I could, and it was pure luck that she had an opening for a new student. I should hate for the opportunity to go to waste, especially knowing just how pleased my uncle will be with my progress."

Sansa's cheeks had begun to ache. She could control her smile, but she couldn't control the blood that lingered hot on her face. She almost regretted wearing her oversized Lady Lioness sweater, all too sweltering over her button-up blouse, but the school spirit ought to help her case. _Please_ , Sansa silently begged. _Please take it as truth._

When the crease disappeared from Lannett's brow, and she reclined in her too-tall puffed leather desk chair, Sansa dared to hope. 

"Very well," the headmistress said, lacing her slender fingers together. Her ruby rings glinted in the sunlight that streaked in from the windows. "As long as it doesn't interfere with your studies, I suppose you may keep seeing this teacher of yours." 

"Oh thank you, Headmistress Lannett, truly. It means so much to me—to my uncle." 

"I'll take your word, Lady Stark." She reached to adjust her pile of salmon stationary, though nary a sheet was out of place. "You are dismissed." 

Sansa rose, curtsied, and wasted no time scurrying to the door. Her fingers had just curled around the cold brass knob when Lannett spoke up again. 

"I'm doing you a favor." 

Sansa's spine stiffened as though an ice cube had dropped beneath her blouse. She turned to see all the supernaturally white teeth back on display, paired with knowing eyes that crept all over her face. 

"Be careful, Sansa. Be very careful." 

Sansa ran all the way back to Hetherspoon. Only when she had sealed herself inside her room did she allow herself to breathe, though it came in great shuddering gasps. She might have sobbed. She might have wilted to the soft oak floorboards and sunk into the cracks. But she didn't, because Jeyne sat at her desk, her perpetually baleful brown eyes wide as ever. 

"What happened?" she asked, pushing up from her chair. Sansa waved her back down, willed away the hot threat of tears behind her eyes, and dropped into her bed. _It doesn't smell right_ , she thought sadly. To the ceiling she said, "She's noticed. The calls, the trips to the city, the late nights. The other girls, or the watchmen, or someone—they're talking." 

"So what happened?" 

"I lied," Sansa sighed. She closed her eyes so she wouldn't have to look at the picture of her mostly-dead family tacked on the wall. Would Father still be proud if he knew the trouble she had gotten herself into? Cavorting with a rogue knight, premarital sex, lots of sex, sex that was surely sinful as the Stranger themself? Oh, Maiden's love, what was she thinking? Sansa pressed her hands over her face to make extra sure Father couldn't see her shame. "I told them I'm seeing a music teacher in Lannisport. I made one up—Wylla Dayne." 

"Wylla Dayne," Jeyne repeated, now an accomplice in whatever scheme Sansa had wittingly begun. "So that explains all the practicing, too." 

"I'm supposed to be writing songs for Uncle's nameday, as a surprise. I'm seeing a teacher, and I'm making an album for him. That's my story." 

"But Uncle Petyr hates surprises."

Sansa needed Jeyne on her side more than anything, but in that moment, she could have clobbered her dim head into stone. Instead, she whispered back, "I know, Jeyne. I know." 

The rest of the day was a terrible slog. She still had arithmetic and piano. Then she had study group in the library for two impossibly long hours before dinner. Her dinner had no taste whatsoever, but maybe she didn't even take one bite. 

All Sansa could do was watch. She stared down every single girl in the dining hall, wondering which of them whispered to Lannett. Was it Carolei, who sometimes lingered in Plumm while Sansa practiced her new songs? She had asked one too many questions about the Minimarq, and she had even bought the exact same boots as Sansa. 

But she was always so nice. 

So perhaps it was Margot. She lived down the hall. She was only a Peckledon, so maybe she was jealous. Jealous that Sansa came from so much more, jealous that Turnberry doted on her the most for all her natural talent. She was so jealous she even started wearing a black silk ribbon around her neck. 

She didn't get it, of course. Sansa's collar meant she belonged to someone. That she was so good, and so special. 

At least to one person. One man. 

One Hound. 

By the time Sansa's cold pudding had gone warm again, she had decided they were all jealous, the whole sorry lot of them. If they noticed her calls from the dorm, if they overheard her saying Sandor's name, they were simply jealous. They wished someone cared for them enough to call them every day. They wished they knew someone half so handsome, or kind. All their boyfriends did was make them cry and scream at each other. 

Served them right for getting attached to self-obsessed noble boys. Sansa had already learned that lesson with Joffrey. 

These girls had yet to learn. None of them would dare to read _Manifest of Freedom_. None of them understood the tyranny of their own noble class. Sansa laughed into her one meager bite of dessert, thinking of what would happen if she brought up the redistribution of land next time she attended court. Or perhaps when Sansa offered to play the harp over cordials, she could floor them all with a flawless rendition of the Winter Maiden, sung in the Old Tongue. 

Bitterness was the only thing that filled Sansa's belly as she charged back to her room. _They don't get it_ , she told herself over and over. _They just don't get it_. 

It was a poor excuse for a meal.

Well after sundown, Sansa knew she only had one reprieve. She picked up her Minimarq, and she fled to Plumm Hall. 

Her favorite little practice room, the one at the far end of the corridor, was miraculously free. Sansa set up her synth on the side table and began to play. She loved every song she had written these past few weeks. They seemed to sprout right out of her fingertips, each one a more lovely flower than the last. She had a full garden now, a familiar bed of blossoms that cheered her up every time she visited. 

She sowed, she pruned, but mostly, she sang. She sang until her lungs ached, and then she sang some more. Instruments came and went, they fell out of tune, but her voice was hers and hers alone. So she used it. 

When the hallway lights went dark, Sansa crept back out into the corridor. She poked her nose into the other practice rooms, then a string of classrooms, and even the few offices that filled up the first floor. There was no one, except for the maid, Bryn. When her soft-soled shoes scuffled across the floorboards, and the entry door slammed shut, it was time. 

The phone in Plumm was a flimsy olive green handset. It sat at the back of the hall, next to a dingy armchair that had far surpassed its prime. Sansa was almost ready to tow it back to her room, but then she glanced at her wristwatch, and remembered. 

Warriorsday. In all the excitement, she had forgotten that Sandor had band practice until at least eleven, and it was hardly ten. Sansa slumped into the armchair, which smelled vaguely of chalk dust and mildew, and she bit at her lip a little. She desperately wanted to keep using her voice, and she wanted to hear Sandor's, too. That would make the day all worthwhile. 

Before she knew, her fingers were dialing another number. Sansa twirled the cord and listened to the fuzzy tone on the other end. 

" _Rytsas_ ," greeted an unfamiliar voice in thick Valyrian.

"Um, hello, is—um—Arya there? I'm her sister." 

"Arya?" 

Sansa sighed. She never knew what to call her sister anymore. "Salty? Cat? Mercy?" 

"Mercy, yes." 

Sansa waited out some shouts, the distant stomping of boots, then footsteps so light they were barely audible. The receiver crackled, then came Arya's voice, crisp common tongue with a Northern edge. "You there Sansa?" 

"I'm here," Sansa replied, smiling. She tucked onto her knees as warm relief bloomed in her chest. Getting Ayra on the phone was always such an undertaking, but Sansa needed her tonight, this little slice of home. "What're you up to? How are things?" 

"Oh, same old stuff. Three shows a day, four on the weekends. Izembaro works us near dead. You'd think I'm fieldhand with all the bruises and scrapes I've got. But I'm alive, so I can't complain. I'm putting away money now, might join Marro when he heads down to Pentos." 

"Pentos? That would be quite the adventure." 

Arya scoffed. "Yeah, we'll see. What about you? How's school going?" 

"Um, school is good." Sansa smoothed down her skirt, picking off microscopic bits of fuzz that clung to the wool. "Midterms went well, I got high marks on all of them. So that's good. And, um—" she pulled in some courage with her next breath. _Arya can know_. _She never whispers_. "I met someone. A boy." 

"A _boy_?" Arya sucked her teeth. "Where did you find a boy at a girl's college? It's supposed to be dull as a wooden dagger." 

"Well, um, he's not a boy really. He's a knight." 

"A knight. So you've been keeping court at Casterly Rock?" 

"No, um—" Sansa's cheeks burned. Even from across the Narrow Sea, Arya knew just how to needle her. Or maybe it was the thought of her knight—tall, dark, and handsome—that made her blood too hot. "He's actually retired now, from the Kingsforce, and he lives in Lannisport. I went to one of his shows there, he's in a band, and he plays guitar, and he's really, really good." 

"I'm sorry, are you telling me you're dating a rogue knight in a rock band?" 

"Heartsbane is folk metal, technically, but yes." 

Arya's laughter went on for a very long time. She wheezed and sputtered, and smacked whatever hard surface was closest to her phone until Sansa was forced to hold the receiver at arm's length. She couldn't blame her sister for being so amused—the situation was nothing if not laughable. The most important thing was that when her laughs reduced to giggles and a few odd coughs, she answered, "That's so fucking cool. What's his name?" 

"Sandor." 

"Ser Sandor," Arya hummed. "That has a nice ring to it. But what's his family name?" 

Sansa sighed. "It's Clegane." 

"Huh, why does that—" 

"His brother was the Mountain, Gregor," Sansa replied before her sister could finish. The little puff of air on the other end meant she understood. "Sandor goes by the Hound sometimes. That's what people in town call him, but they called him that in the Kingsforce too, for his loyalty." 

"Yeah, about that. How does one leave the Kingsforce? Aren't you supposed to stay until, you know, death?" 

"He was discharged, for—um—his health. He's on the side of the free folk now." 

"Like dad?" 

"Like dad." 

They shared silence. Sansa's skirt was picked clean, so she tapped each one of her nails into her thumb in turn. Sansa missed her father, but sometimes she wondered if Arya missed him even more. She was so much like him. They had always been the best of friends. Father would hold Sansa close, and sing her to sleep, but he would ride with Arya. Spar with Arya. The same as he did with Rob, and Bran, and even sometimes Baby Rickon. 

No one would ever come close to replacing father for Arya. She had made that very clear. 

"You would like him," Sansa said, just to get rid of the quiet. "I think you would really like him. He's so tall, and a little dour. But he's handsome, and smart, and considerate, and really quite funny. He can smell out a lie better than anyone I've ever known. He's wonderful, truly, and—" she lowered her voice to a whisper, just in case. "We have sex, and I like it." 

"Oh, gross," Arya moaned. "I thought you were saving yourself for your prince charming, and a septon's blessing to boot. How do you s'pose mom's Gods feel about it?"

"I don't think I care much how they feel about me anymore," Sansa came back. "Besides, I did save myself for Joffrey, and he took me anyway. There was nothing left when I met Sandor." 

"Sansa, I didn't know—" 

"I know, because I never told you. But it doesn't matter now. Sandor makes me feel good. Really, really good, in ways Joffrey never did. We do things, like things in bed, that I didn't even know you could do. Sandor knows though, he knows so much, and he's teaching me all sorts of things. He's rather bossy, and we use rope to—" 

An aggressively loud burst of singing cut Sansa off. She blushed, and got the message. Too much—right. One moon ago and it would have been too much for Sansa, too. 

Worse than the singing was the silence that followed. Sansa knew this silence. The shadows crept in. 

"Sansa," Arya began. 

"Please don't," she replied. Tears were already heavy behind her eyes. "Please." 

"So he doesn't know. Of course he doesn't know." 

Sansa shook her head as if her sister could hear, lips drawn tight to keep in any whimpers. Arya sighed. "Well, I suppose the worst that could happen is that you'll end up like me." 

Sansa missed her chance to reply. There was a stern grumbling on the other end, some rapidly exchanged Valyrian, and what sounded like the crack of a whip. Then the line went dead. 

A few tears slipped down Sansa's cheeks. 

_I miss you_ , she had meant to say. _I wish you were here_. _I wish you could meet Sandor_. But mostly, for the first time in her life, she envied her sister. Was that truly the worst possible outcome? 

Ayra was free. 

_Help me_ , Sansa should have said. _Help me to be as brave as you_. 

Many minutes passed. Moonlight streamed in from the window, the only light in that long, empty corridor. Every so often, the air conditioning would whir to life, stir in more cold, then sputter back to silence.

Sansa loved Sandor's pet name for her, but sometimes, she worried she was just a helpless little bird. Maybe it was okay if she was just brave enough to pull the handset around the corner and shut herself back in the practice room. Just brave enough to crumple onto the floor, and dial the numbers she now knew by heart. 

When the line clicked, and Sandor answered with a gruff, "Little bird," Sansa knew, if only for a short while, everything would be okay. 

"Hi," she answered back, far too shaky and breathless. 

"Everything alright?"

Sansa put on her smile. "Of course." She giggled, too. _Everything is okay._ "Just a little tired is all. How was your day?" 

"Shit," he breathed out, alongside what must have been the world's biggest cloud of smoke. "Some cunt wheeled ten dozen barrels of arbor gold straight into the sea. Boss says it's coming out of all our pay. The boys roughed the guy up pretty bad. Came out looking like raw beef. I didn't hit him none, but I didn't put a stop to it either. Fuck." There was a crackling inhale, a big long pause, then an even bigger exhale. "But I'm better now that I'm home. Now that I have you." 

That made Sansa smile for real. "I'm glad I have you, too." 

"Where are you tonight, little bird? The dorm or the music building?" 

"I'm in Plumm," Sansa replied. 

"Thank fuck," Sandor growled. He shifted around—on the sofa, presumably—clinking bottles together and taking one last puff. Then came the click of his belt buckle, the unmistakable sound of an unzipped fly. After that Sandor breathed hard, the way Sansa usually made him, except she wasn't there to help. "Tell me what you're wearing, sweet girl." 

Sansa blushed. She couldn't help _in person,_ but Sandor really liked if she helped over the phone. It was probably the next best thing. "Well, I only have one plait today," she began. She always started with her hair, and worked her way down. Sandor liked that. "I woke up late actually, so I didn't even have time to comb it, really. It's a little messy now, all falling out, and I haven't bothered to fix it." 

"Sounds pretty," Sandor said. 

"Maybe," Sansa replied, knowing full well that her loose curls would drive him wild. "I didn't spend much time picking out my outfit, either. I'm wearing my Lady Lioness sweatshirt, the really big one, over a white button-up. The blouse isn't anything special, I've had it since I was thirteen, I'm pretty sure. It used to be part of my school uniform. My skirt, too." Sansa tugged at her skirt. She pictured Sandor's hands on the skin she left exposed and smiled. "I think you'd like the skirt. It's plain grey wool, but I've probably outgrown it." 

"Is that so?" 

"Mhm." 

Sansa loved the sound he made in reply, one of those low rumblings deep in his belly. "How short?" 

" _Really_ short. So short that when I sit down, it comes almost all the way up. I have to be careful." 

"Are you being careful now, little bird?" 

Sansa made him wait a bit, listening to the soft rhythm of flesh on flesh. He wasn't going fast, not yet. When Sandor grunted a warning, Sansa replied, "Not particularly, no." 

She smirked, because then Sandor did go faster. "Naughty girl, roaming around her little school with her legs out for everyone to see. You have pretty legs though, so soft and white. And so long. Gods, they're perfect. If I had my hands on you, I'd bend you over and see just how far that little skirt rides up." 

Sansa bit back a whimper. He had put a flush between her legs, as usual. She smoothed a palm over the front of her skirt, but didn't dip beneath. She wasn't bold enough for that. She would have to wait until next time she had her room to herself, which wasn't often, sadly. 

"What are you wearing underneath?" he asked. "The plain ones?" 

"Mhm," Sansa replied. "Plain black. The _boring_ ones." 

The boring ones were a new acquisition. Sandor's reaction to Uncle Petyr's gifts had Sansa tottering off to Pence's to get a whole drawerful of the most simple, high cut briefs. She never, ever wanted to have Sandor ask after Uncle again. Sandor liked the plain ones well enough. He would be imagining them now: tugging them aside, putting his hand on her wetness. That's what Sansa was thinking of, anyway. 

"I want your hands on me," she told him. "I want them _in_ me."

"Of course you do, little bird. I know you like that. You like them in your pretty wet cunt, and you know what else you liked? You liked them on your ass, too. You especially liked my thumb, do you remember that?" He paused to make sure Sansa blushed extra hard, then growled, "I know you do. You finished so quick with my thumb inside you. Next time I'll put my cock in. How does that sound, little bird?" 

"Sandor," Sansa gasped. "I can't—I don't know if—"

"Little bird…" 

Sansa sighed. "I could try." 

"Good girl. I know you can take all of me. And don't worry, I'd grease you up real nice." 

"Sandor," Sansa whined. _Grease_? That sounded dreadful. But Sandor was already laughing at her, as if he could see her pout from so many miles away. 

"You know when you say my name like that it only makes me harder." 

Regrettably, Sansa sighed again, louder. So Sandor got loud too. He made a noise that was part-animal, and his strokes practically turned into slaps. Sansa squeezed her thighs together and wished his warmth could be inside her, even if it was the wrong hole. "Grease makes it sound like I'm a rabbit on a spit," she moped. 

"Maybe that's what I want," Sandor came back. "You'd taste so sweet, little rabbit." 

Sansa's clit throbbed like a wild creature, and she pressed a hand down between her legs. Before she could stop herself she whimpered, "You think so?" 

"Gods yeah," Sandor rasped. "I'd suck all the meat from your bones, and then I'd come for your marrow. And when that's all gone, you know what I'd do? I'd turn your bones into broth, and drink that too— _every last drop_." 

This time it was Sansa who sounded like an animal. She let out a high-pitched squeak, nothing better than small game in a steel trap. She tried to keep it in with a palm clasped to her mouth, but it was too late. Her blood was too hot in her veins, and Sandor, that did him in. He panted, "Little rabbit, fuck," and then he groaned loud enough to wake up all of Sow's End. 

He muttered some more curses after that, then there was rebuckling and zipping, and then a few extra curses for good measure. "You're too good," he grumbled at last. "You know that?" 

Sansa _did_ know, because he told her all the time. Still, she answered, "I like being reminded." 

Sandor grinned on the other end. "Then be a good little bird and play me some music." 

"Which song?"

"All of them. Start with that one I like, the one about the bear." 

"Honeycomb?"

"Aye, Honeycomb. Play it twice." 

While Sansa unfolded and set to work adjusting her filters, Sandor started rolling himself another joint. By the time his lighter sparked and he let out his first mighty cough, Sansa was ready. With the receiver placed delicately beside her synth, she began to play. 

She lost time this way. This was when the whole world disappeared. Every problem, every sorrow faded into thin air. There was only her, her Minimarq, and so many miles away, Sandor. But he didn't feel far away when she played. Just as Sandor pictured her in her skirt, bending over for him, taking him any way he liked, Sansa pictured Sandor in the practice room, listening. 

He would listen for hours, nursing a pitch-black ale, swallowing hemp smoke until the whole tiny room became a hazy cloud. That fantasy kept Sansa singing, kept her fingers twisting knob after knob. That fantasy was her whole world. 

She ended up playing every song twice, and Honeycomb four times. When she started yawning too much to sing, she had to stop. She stayed on with Sandor, like always. She fell back into her corner, hard wood panelling at her back and stiff floorboards beneath her. A terrible bed that made her bones ache, but better than the one in her dorm. 

"You're going to be the best one there," Sandor told her. "Not even close." 

"But what about Heartsbane?" 

"Not even close," he said again. "Did you make those tapes?" 

"I'm working on it. How many do you think?" 

"A hundred, two hundred. Hells, maybe three hundred. You could make a fat stack of stars off of this lot, I'm sure." 

Sansa could never get away with making three hundred tapes, but Sandor's confidence made her ribs feel much too small a home for her heart. She hoped there would be that many people there. Her friends from Archer's party, and some new friends, too. People that understood her. People that understood her _and_ Sandor. Together. 

"I'm excited," she whispered into the receiver, tucked between her shoulder and ear like a hard plastic pillow. She yawned again, and her eyelids fell shut. 

"I'm excited for you, little bird. You're so talented. You're so _good_." 

Sansa knew that already, but she liked being reminded. Sandor's sweet words put her to sleep every night, the softest lullaby. She would dream sweet dreams, of crumbling keeps in high places. Wide rivers hemmed by buzzing meadows. Orchards of white trees crowned in red. And everywhere, smiles. A home. 

"Little bird," came Sandor's voice in a soft rasp some hours later. "It's time to wake up." 

Sansa roused, rubbing her sleep-filled eyes and unsticking herself from the phone. She tested out her joints with a few cracks and pops, then got up on shaky feet. She liked having Sandor on the line while she put her Minimarq back in its sturdy leather bound case. Then she took everything back to the little phone nook. 

Some nights she was tempted to curl up in that stinky armchair and never let Sandor go. But the ghost of a too-white smile and bright scary eyes kept Sansa upright. 

"Well, good night," she said, her voice thick with exhaustion. "We'll talk tomorrow?" 

"Aye. 'Til then, little bird." 

And then Sandor was gone, replaced by a string of monotonous beeps. Sansa put everything to rights in the corner, then tiptoed down the corridor and out into the courtyard.

Campus was different so late at night. A hearty half moon commanded the sky, lighting up the empty pathways and painting the grass an eerie shade of blue. The stars watched Sansa trek back to Hetherspoon, their whispers a stout breeze that lashed her skirt to and fro. 

She had a hand on the cold iron door handle when a flicker of light caught her eye, too close to be a star. Sansa squinted across the quad to see two shining stars, earthbound. 

Eyes. 

Seconds later, a crescent moon appeared beneath them. 

A figure stepped out from the shadow cast by Estren Hall, clad in the dark uniform of a watchman. He lifted a hand and held it there. Stunned, Sansa waved back. 

_Be careful_ , said the wind, tickling the fine hair on the nape of her neck. _Be very careful._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Up next week is Chapter Eight: Transfixed 
> 
> 'Til then!


	8. Transfixed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa plays at Wylla's house show. 
> 
> Chapter track: [Girlpool - Pretty](https://youtu.be/erXHphAfXj0)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aw hey look it's only story I'm posting for now! I'm busy in the lab cooking up my next long concept. While you wait, please enjoy this gem of a chapter. This is hands down one of my favorites. I love SanSan sm, sigh. 
> 
> Enjoy 💓

The week leading up to Wylla's house show was miserable. Everything set Sansa off—Margot, staring too long during piano class. Jeyne, hovering like a nervous septa. Then there was her weekly phone call with Uncle Petyr that dragged on for so long. She hadn't been to court often enough, he told her. She needed to be seen. She would go to Casterly for the Warden's name day celebration with one of the Mormont girls, or at least a Prester. 

She needed a match. 

Then he told her of all _his_ meetings, all the boys _he_ met, all the boys he would throw in her path at the next gala. Sansa received his words with a wooden smile. _Of course, Uncle. He sounds lovely, Uncle. I'd be delighted to have an introduction, Uncle._

And finally, _I love you too, Uncle Petyr_. _I love you ever so much._

The words tasted like sticky decay in her mouth. Had they ever been fresh? 

Sadly, the day before the show, Sansa learned the root of her misery. 

Moonblood. 

She cried in the shower for over an hour, thighs sticky, pink water and red hair swirling into the drain. When she got too weak to stand, she staggered back to her room, made herself as small as possible in bed, and cried some more. Her belly was alive with flame and sharpness, a churning volcano of discomfort. 

When deep light fell, she unstuck herself from the covers and took up residence in her favorite armchair—the one next to the phone. Sandor told her everything would be okay. That a little bit of blood wouldn't ruin the show, and it especially wouldn't ruin Sansa's plans for them after. He said it would make their game more realistic even. He didn't mind one bit. 

Then Sandor sang to her, gentle versions of her favorite Heartsbane songs. He grumbled along to electric melodies, like steady waves on craggy shore. He sent her to bed with a dozen more reassurances: _You'll be fine, little bird. Get some rest. It'll be better in the morning._ It was enough for her to sleep soundly. 

The next day really was better, a balmy spring day with shy sunlight budding through whipped cream clouds. The best part of the day was that it turned to night. Jeyne was almost helpful as Sansa fluttered around the room, tossing clothes like a veritable tempest until she found the perfect outfit. Well, it probably shouldn't have been her outfit, but as soon as Sansa pulled on the mint-green satin nightgown, she knew it wasn't coming off. 

Jeyne gasped when she saw it, but her wide-eyed look was one of reverence. She would never dare to wear a girlhood gown, low and tight on the chest, with a lacy hem flirting dangerously at the thighs. 

But Sansa would. 

She fussed over her hair a bit, then decided a crown of plaits would work best. It wouldn't get in her eyes that way. Two dozen hairpins later, she was ready. She swiped on a bit of mascara, tested out Wylla's eyeliner technique, but didn't bother with lipstick. Sandor would steal it all away within minutes. 

She stuck on her boots, latched up her Minimarq, grabbed her backpack brimming with demo tapes, and headed out. 

Darkstar's pick-up truck was waiting for her at the station. Acrid black clouds of exhaust seeped out below a dented tailgate painted with the word _WARHAMMER_ in peeling block letters. Sandor jumped down, got all Sansa's things tucked away, then fell on her. His heavy hands crushed the delicate satin puffs at her shoulders as his tongue forced its way inside her mouth and stayed. He only stopped when Darkstar tapped the horn. 

"We're coming," Sandor shouted. Then, to Sansa, "That little dress is nothing but trouble." 

"I know," she said back. 

The way Sandor's eyes narrowed and shone, Sansa knew what he was thinking. He wanted to toss her in the bed of the truck and grind her to pulp against its rigid steel lining. He didn't even need to undress her, and he certainly didn't care if his bandmate sat three feet away. 

But he would have to wait. 

Sandor helped Sansa up into the front seat then slid in by her side, so big that he squeezed her between him and Darkstar. The drummer didn't seem to mind Sansa's bare thigh flush against his own, covered in soft black leather. He greeted her with a nod, eyes lingering south of her chin. Sandor slung his arm over Sansa's shoulder and nudged Darkstar back to the wheel.

Sansa snuggled into the shelter made by Sandor's armpit, and they were off. 

The truck's tight cabin could fit a lot of smoke and sound. Sandor lit a joint as soon they turned onto the highway, and metal blared from two tiny speakers in the center console. The lightspeed pounding of drums and guitar had the dashboard shimmying. The silver sword pendant dangling from the rearview mirror slashed at the hazy air. "Dawn," Sandor told her, when she asked what they were listening to. Dornish metal. 

He took a long drag, then curled a hand beneath Sansa's chin and pressed into her mouth. His smoke spilled into her, and she swallowed all she could. She gave the leftover wisps back to him. Sandor grinned against her lips, and shaped her two favorite words. 

"It would be more polite to share," Darkstar said, sticking them with wicked amethyst eyes.

Instead of passing the joint, Sandor claimed another lungful for himself, then leaned into Sansa and gifted the spoils to her. When she was full, he pulled away and gestured with a tick of his head. "Go on, little bird," he said. "Share." 

She hesitated for a split second, but Darkstar had already come to meet her halfway. So Sansa opened up for him, dropping her breath into a soft-lipped kiss that tasted like lemon and new skin. She liked his mouth, smooth and calculating, so she explored it, smoke seeping through the cracks of them. 

Darkstar swerved suddenly and they parted, laughing when he got the truck straightened up again. Sandor laughed too, deep from his belly, even louder than the music. Then he treated Sansa to his hand on her cheek, thumb tracing her blush. This time his _good girl_ made it out into the open air. 

Sansa had never known air so sweet as this: swirls of hemp lit by stars and streaks of lamplight, vibrating to the relentless bass. It danced for her. It danced for Sandor. He held Sansa so close she could scarcely tell where she ended and he began. They were vibrating too, matching the air, breathing it all in and spitting it back out. _We're the same_ , Sansa thought. She set her lips to the only part of Sandor she could reach—the edge of his chest, where a ring of sweat had seeped out to the _R_ on his Oathkeeper shirt.

She kissed him there, over and over. It was either a million kisses or just one. A forever kind of kiss. 

Wylla's house was one of many stone houses stacked in a tottering row, great tangles of ivy binding them all together. Her house was distinguishable by the bright yellow light and heady bass that spilled from its wide front windows. Darkstar wedged the truck into an impossibly small gap down the block, and Sandor hopped out to start unloading. 

He was off with a couple of amps and his Silvertongue before Sansa's feet met the pavement. She tried to fish out her Minimarq from the bed of the truck, but her arms weren't nearly long enough, so she frowned instead. 

"I'll get it," Darkstar said, throwing himself over the tailgate to navigate the mess of cases and cables in his trunk. He hoisted the synth and passed it off to her with a smirk. "There you go. A big machine for a little bird." 

Sansa blushed, and Darkstar gave her a full, silver-toothed smile before picking out two round canvas bags and dropping them to the curb. He walked with her towards the house. Sansa couldn't think of anything to say—he had a dangerous beauty, all-consuming like a black hole—but luckily he spared her the effort. 

"Sandor's smitten." 

Sansa almost wished the silence back. "H-he is?" 

Darkstar tipped his half-head of white blonde hair back and howled a laugh. "Oh, I can see why. Those big blue eyes could charm the king out of his crown. Of course he does. Won't fucking shut up about you, quite frankly." 

Then Sansa _really_ blushed, so heavy that she hung her head and watched her boots, moonlight shining in the toes of them. She wondered what sorts of things Sandor had to say about her, and what it meant for a hound to be smitten. 

"You should stick around," Darkstar went on. "I've never seen him like this before." 

"Like what?" Sansa asked, climbing up the well-worn stone stairs to Wylla's doorstep. They both stopped there, and Darkstar waited to hook her with his bone-deep purple stare before answering. 

"Alive," was all he said. 

The front door flew open, and Sandor appeared, big and dark as ever. "I'll get that for you, sweet girl," he said, taking the Minimarq from her. 

"What about me?" Darkstar asked with a teasing smirk. 

With a ragged sigh, Sandor scooped the two drum bags into one massive hand, and pushed back inside. Sansa followed. 

Wylla's house was something else. Black oak floors and matching wood panelling stretched down the main corridor and spread into each adjoining room, but they were the backdrop for much more extraordinary things. Sansa knew Wylla made art, they had talked about it over the phone, but she didn't expect _this_. 

Sansa might have been under the sea. A scary sea. Paintings of bare-chested mermaids in twisted black frames lined the corridor, but they weren't the pretty mermaids you saw in children's cartoons. They were vicious, some sinking tridents into the lifeless bodies of crowned men, others simply using pointed teeth. 

Sansa kind of liked them. They made her palms prickle.

The main party was out back, on a sprawling patio hemmed in by a thick stone fence. Torches blazed along it, showering the scattered crowd in orange light. Sansa was taken in immediately. 

First she saw Wylla, then Willow, and Melly, and Puddingfoot. They all loved her hair and her dress. Green was Wylla's favorite color. "Everyone here needs to wear more color," she griped in between puffs of her cigarette. It was a funny thing to say, since she was wearing a frilly black gown, something that screamed _Witch Queen of Harrenhal_. She looked quite pretty though, so Sansa held her tongue. 

Unfortunately, she had to drink more Blue Rose. Wylla promised her mead from the cupboard later, but not before she towed Sansa around for more introductions. She met new people and reacquainted with others. Some of Sandor's friends from up North were there, and they loved Sansa's dress too. They could hardly lift their eyes to find her face.

Sansa talked to Gorne for a very long time while Archer played a lackluster set on his Quester, the sight of which made the beer in her belly bubble. She passed her can to Gorne, who sipped two beers at time and regaled with the story of his namesake. By the time he finished, his beard was rather foamy, and Sandor and Darkstar had taken over the stage. 

The stage area wasn't even a stage, just four tall candelabras around a patch of stone at the back of the patio. Even so, Sansa went right up front. She watched and smiled as Sandor set the equipment to rights, lining up his pedals and fiddling with his wires. He would smile back at her when he could, then shake his head and keep working. 

He had to put on a much sterner face to play his music. He scowled and kept his head low, so that his hair made shadows on his scars. His hands were the best part, always. The runes on his knuckles and the thick veins beneath flexed and shifted with every chord. His rings shone. There was such power there, summoning dark sounds for the old gods and sending them back into the heavens. As ever, Sandor knew exactly what he was doing. 

Sansa danced, careful in her too-short dress not to flash her boring black panties and the stupid rag between her legs. She guarded her belly too, still achy from her moontide. Thankfully she had used enough hairpins to keep her plaits up while she rocked her head, chasing Sandor's sweet melodies. 

It was over too soon. 

Sansa went to Sandor the second he set down his Silvertongue, tiptoeing over tangles of wire to throw her arms around him. "You played so well," she said into his shirt, soaked through with sweat and clinging to his swollen muscles. He let Sansa stay there, dropping his heavy arms to tuck her close, putting sweet kisses on her woven crown. 

"Are you ready for your set, little bird?" 

Sansa nodded against his chest, unwilling to lose his warmth on her cheek.

"Good. Do you need help setting up?" 

Begrudgingly, she peeled away to shake her head. "I can do it on my own. I know how." 

She did know how, but as soon as Sandor let her go, her heart began to flutter. He kept watch of her though, a shoulder propped on the wall, a fresh joint between two inked knuckles. Every time Sansa glanced at him while she plugged in this or that cable or tested her connections, he knew to smile. Just small ones, mostly in his eyes. He knew to be soft. 

The scariest part was when everything was set up: the Minimarq, on its stable enough metal stand, and a microphone, poised right at its center. Sansa gave it a couple taps, and went white as a sheet when dozens of eyes fell on her. 

She swallowed, hard, but that didn't stop her heart from slamming against her ribs. 

"Hi," she said, forcing herself not to grimace when the word echoed harsh across the patio. People descended on the stage like puppets on slow strings. _Introduce yourself_. _You have to introduce yourself._ She hadn't thought of what to say, and she couldn't think of anything now, not with bright candlelight nipping at her vision. 

"I'm Lady—" she began, but the rest— _Sansa Stark of Winterfell, Daughter of Eddard Stark and Catlyn Tully, Granddaughter of Rickard Stark, Great Granddaughter of Edwyle Stark. Descendant of the First Men, Daughter of the North—_ got stuck in her throat. 

She couldn't possibly say all that. So she tested out her throat again and said, "I'm Lady. Just Lady." 

Finally, she remembered to smile. 

A few odd cheers broke out, alongside some whistling and tepid clapping. Wylla and Willow were up front, holding hands smiling back. Sansa had to check one more time—Sandor, to her right, stowed safely in the shadows. He gave her a nod. _Go on, little bird_ , he seemed to say. _Play your pretty songs._

With shaky fingers, Sansa brought her first flower to bloom. It was only right to start with Another Nova, the song that a good third of the party had already heard and loved. They loved it this time too, stirring to life and moving to each electronic dip and bend. Not a single petal was out of place. 

Next up was False Spring, then Honeycomb, Maiden's Melancholy, Soft as Snow, and Wolves in the Night. Her garden drew all sorts of attention, bodies filling gaps and laying wide-eyed stares on Sansa as she sowed. She had to dance to her own music too, it was only right. She swayed like a frostfire in the wind, with no purpose but to grow bigger and brighter. 

Every now and then, she looked to Sandor, just in case. He was always there, always soft. He took extra care to keep his scars hidden behind black hair, but when Sansa caught a glimpse of them, her knees went weak. They mirrored the night sky—dark, fathomless, almost frightening. 

But beautiful instead. 

At the end of Two Silk Ribbons, every part of Sansa's body was weak, because there was only one song left. A new song. A special song. 

A song Sandor hadn't heard. 

She wrote it one night after their call, when her heart was too full for sleep. It slipped straight out of her, and she had played it every night since. She kept it a secret, until now. 

Sansa clutched the microphone with a damp palm. "I have one last song to play. I call this one _Pretty_." 

She floated in silence for a few long breaths, listening to her pulse sing, fingers idling on the volume knob. When she came back to solid ground, she twisted that knob, and her precious flower took root. The words were honey on her tongue, slow, heavy, and ever so sweet. Sansa had never written a song as true as this. 

" _Talk to me_ ," she sang. " _Tell me any story. See me, you don't have to be alone._ "

It was a song for late phone calls, for singing each other to sleep, for secrets whispered in the dark, for being a secret, together. For being close. 

So close. 

Close enough to be the same. 

She sang for Sandor and only Sandor. But he didn't give her softness in return. His eyes were wide and bright white, shiny like stars. He held his face so tightly his jaw shook and his lips trembled. Sansa was a ghost to him, and her lyrics were her response, a reassurance. _See me, you don't have to be alone._

But is that what a ghost would say? 

Sandor was a ghost too, or maybe a shadow. As soon as the song finished, and Sansa delivered a stream of thanks to the tune of thundering applause, he disappeared. There wasn't enough time to even worry about it, because a swarm of admirers swallowed Sansa up. Wylla hugged her and pinched her cheeks to ruby redness. Willow hugged her too, and then _everyone_ wanted a hug. Gendel practically snapped her spine in two as he lifted her clear off the ground, meaty arms binding up her entire body. He gave her a good hearty shake and roared his approval. 

When he set her down, he raised up a can of Blue Rose. "To Lady!" he shouted. 

Dozens of arms shot up and called back, "To Lady!" 

Sansa didn't know what else to do other than curtsy and smile a smile so big it became a laugh. She received everyone who wanted a little bit of her, even Archer. She only let him have her hand, upon which he placed a clammy kiss. "Well played, my lady," he said. He tried to move his slimy lips up her arm, but Sansa snapped it back. 

"Don't try that ever again," she hissed. " _Please_."

Her manners worked, because he left with nothing but a bow. Then people started asking after tapes. They wanted to take her music home with them, just as Sandor predicted. 

But she needed to find her tapes. 

So she started on a quest to find Sandor. 

He definitely wasn't on the patio—he would be the tallest one there, and one of the widest, too. After one frantic loop outside, she took to the house. 

Wylla's house was a labyrinth stuck in the last century. Sansa opened door after door, greeted with macabre nautical decor behind each one. A mermaid statue, weeping. Two mermaid statues, kissing _and_ weeping. Then a tapestry of a seascape, hordes of merfolk dislodging a warship, Laughing Lion. None of the lions aboard the ship were laughing—there were only screams. 

Where there weren't bloodthirsty mermaids, there were grim antiques. Pitch black urns, iron chandeliers and sconces, set with candles just as dark. _More like Witch Queen of New Castle_ , Sansa thought, after discovering a water closet with two blood-tipped golden tridents mounted on the wood panelling. 

Sansa found a room with a half dozen people, all of them mostly naked and kissing, then a room with a dozen people, sprawled out with a bowl of blue punch in the middle. She trekked across, careful not to step on outstretched limbs, and opened what must have been the last door in the whole house. 

When a cloud of hemp smoke fell out from the frame, Sansa dared to hope. 

A whole bunch of big burly Northmen stared as she stepped inside. They were all passing around a glass tower again. Darkstar sat in a red velvet armchair, with two pretty girls on his lap and Bodger rubbing his shoulders. But most importantly, there was Sandor. 

He was in the far corner, in the biggest, plushest armchair of all. He was scribbling something on parchment, but he stared with the rest of the men, and set his pen down when Sansa slid into his lap. His hand wrapped around her thigh instead, as high it could go without flashing her smallclothes to the whole room. 

"I was looking all over for you," Sansa said, kissing the hollow of his lighter cheek five times in greeting. "You disappeared." 

Sandor grunted, then nipped at Sansa's lower lip the next time she came in for a kiss. He needed a longer taste after that, long enough to clear the last traces of Blue Rose from her tongue and replace it with the bitterness of scorched hemp. He pulled away eventually, and put a gentle hand on her belly. 

"Are you feeling better?" 

"Um…." Of course it was better with Sandor's hand there, all big and warm. So Sansa answered, "Much better, yes.” She looked to the parchment on the side table and pointed. “What're you working on?" she asked. 

"Nothing special," Sandor replied. He picked up the drawing and put it in her hands. 

"Oh," Sansa puffed. 

It was beautiful. No—it was _fearsome_. Sandor had penned the head of a direwolf, fangs bared, ready to snap some poor creature's bones in its mighty jaw. And above it, in pretty medieval calligraphy, was the word _Lady_. 

"It's you," Sandor said. "A proper wolfling." 

"I thought I was a little bird," Sansa replied. 

"You were a Stark first." 

That made Sansa's insides glow red hot. The glow reminded her of something else. "Did you like my song?" she asked, looking up to Sandor. 

"Of course I did, little bird. I like all of your songs." 

"No, I mean my last song—Pretty." 

Sandor's fingers twitched on Sansa's belly, then he ran that hand through his hair. "The new one?" he asked, his voice suddenly much thicker. "I liked it a lot. It's pretty. Really pretty." 

"Sandor, sweetling," Sansa said, picking up his darker cheek this time. "I wrote it for you." 

Sandor's eyes got all glassy again, and his lips pulled up at the burnt corner. In an instant, he descended on Sansa's chest. Truthfully, she should have expected it. Her little gown squished the entire top half of her breasts together, and it was too snug for a bra, so her nipples poked straight through the satin. They were begging to be devoured, and Sandor was eager as ever to clear his plate. 

He cupped beneath her breasts as he worked his mouth over them, pushing their softness past his teeth. He sucked the tops of them so fiercely, with so much tongue, that it _tickled_. Sansa giggled and squirmed, but every shift of her legs only made him grow hard beneath her. When he was done with her breasts, he came for her armpit, but that was even worse. Sansa couldn't breathe for all her giggling, so she buried her fingers in his hair and used all her might to pull him away. 

"Sandor," she mewled. "Sandor, please." 

He came up for air, but only because he wanted to. He tugged Sansa's lips to his with a fist curled around her locket. "You're the sweet one," he growled into her mouth. 

A sudden flash at their side split them apart. Sansa blinked in the sight of Wylla, a square instant camera hanging from her neck. "Gods, you two. This one is gonna be good." She extracted a white small square and shook it. After a minute, she held it out to Sansa. "Truly steamy, I must say." 

It really was. Their lips hovered, with Sandor's hand tight on her locket and Sansa's in his hair. Their very first picture together, nothing short of scandalous. She showed it to Sandor, but his response was an annoyed grunt. Sansa pressed it to her chest. 

"Can I keep it?" she asked Wylla.

"Hah, definitely. You think I need that?" Sansa blushed, but Wylla didn't care. "No, I mostly came up here to lure you out. Everyone is asking about your tapes. If you come downstairs again I'll find you some mead, and we can scare up some coppers." 

That sounded delightful, but Sansa was still on her quest. With one look to Sandor, it was complete. "I have them," he said. He groped over the arm of the chair for Sansa's overstuffed backpack, then dropped it in her lap. "But first—" He unbuckled the bag and took out a tape for himself. Then he folded up his drawing into a tidy rectangle, slid it into the case, and put it into Sansa's hands. "How's that?" 

For a split second, her heart left her body and joined the stars. 

"It's perfect," she replied. Her thumb smoothed over the clear plastic, and the ferocious shewolf snarled back at her. There was a small red smudge in the corner, a fingerprint. Blood, somehow. But what did wolves do, if not draw blood? 

"It's perfect," Sansa repeated for good measure. "Will you hold onto it for me?" 

Sandor nodded, pocketed it, and sent Sansa off with a long kiss. Wylla navigated for them, dragging Sansa all the way into a musty cellar, shelves lined with glass jars, cans, sacks of root vegetables, and a whole wall full of green bottles. Sansa wondered if Wylla didn't have a rich uncle too, or a checkbook that made money and mead appear whenever she wanted. When she asked her question aloud, Wylla laughed. 

"Not an uncle. You can thank Grandpa Manderly for this." 

Wylla plucked up a bottle, blew some dust off it, and they set back upstairs. Sansa got to drink her mead—a cyser from 780—from a true mead glass as she fluttered around the house. Wylla passed out the tapes and collected coins, whatever people were willing to give.

Sansa felt a little guilty. She didn't _truly_ need the money, though it would be nice to have some stashed away that Uncle Petyr didn't know about. 

_Just in case._

Sansa decided to give it all to Sandor, since she wouldn't be here without him, and that was that. 

"So you and the Hound are getting pretty serious then," Wylla said casually as they stepped back onto the patio. Sansa shivered a bit from the brisk night air. She filled her mouth with mead, then swallowed. 

"I think so," she replied. _It certainly feels serious_. 

"If a man looked at me the way he looks at you, well, I think I might actually date a man." Wylla cackled to herself, then grabbed a passerby and put a tape in their hand. They exchanged coins and went on. "What are you going to do about him though?" she asked, handing out another few tapes to a sullen looking group with makeup dark as the dead. "Like are you going to take him to court?" 

There wasn't enough mead in the world for that question, let alone in Sansa's glass. "Do you think I could?" she said in a small voice. 

"You're too cute," Wylla said back. "Gods, I wish were as cute as you. Listen." She stopped in her tracks and set a hand on the side of Sansa's head, just beneath her crown. "If you brought the Hound to court, I'd go back for sure. No doubt about it. Hells, I'd even bring Willow. Fuck 'em." 

They shared a quick smile before Melly came over to get a tape, bringing along Una and Ursa, the two sisters that made up the appropriately titled band Dark Sister. Ursa was the dark one, with hip length black hair and sunken blue eyes. Una looked almost like a Lannister, with golden curls and a puffy crimson dress that looked like it belonged to a doll. 

Sansa half-listened to their gossip—Archer was in trouble with more than one girl, Toefinger had red bumps where the sun didn't shine—but mostly she thought about court. Wylla hadn't been to court since the end of the war. Since her father found out that she liked girls instead of boys. He told her not to come back, and Wylla said he could eat shit. 

Arya couldn't come to court either. Not unless she became more of a girl again, or at least that's what Uncle Petyr said. But she was nowhere near court, and Sansa doubted she'd want to go, even if she did sail back across the sea. 

And Sandor—would he want to go? He had the right papers of course. A retired Ser was still a Ser, even if he loathed nobility. 

Sansa imagined a different court, a new court with Sandor, Arya, Wylla, and Willow, too. That would be better. She'd be brave enough to storm the gates of Casterly and face every Baratheon, Lannister, and Tyrell with Sandor on her arm and her sister at side. 

No one could stop them, really. 

So Wylla's questions became Sansa's own questions. What _was_ she going to do about him? 

But mostly— _are we serious?_

Sansa had to excuse herself for more mead. She reclaimed her bag, now empty except for a handful of tapes and a change of clothes, then headed inside. A few people loitered in the kitchen, smoking cigarettes and picking at a platter of cheese on the marble countertop. Sansa said hello to them and poured herself a double portion of cyser. She nursed the top of it, then added some more. 

_We are serious_ , Sansa decided. _Very serious_. She didn't want to ever go a day without talking to Sandor. If she had her way, she'd see Sandor every day too. She'd wake up to Sandor, go to sleep with Sandor, shower, eat, sing, and have sex with him. _Every single day_. 

That was how serious Sansa was. She was so serious about Sandor that she would go find him right now. 

Sansa had to open a lot of doors again, and close just as many, because a lot more people were kissing. But eventually she found the room with the bowl of blue punch, the one that would certainly lead her to her sweetling. There were still plenty of people on the black sofas, looking half-dead with blue spit dribbling from their lips. 

One of these creatures latched onto Sansa's wrist as she passed by. A stranger, a _human being_ , although he looked closer to a wight—ghastly pale with darkness etched into the cracks. 

"You're the Hound's girl, aren't you?" he drawled, lids heavy over bright blue eyes. "Come on, take a seat. We've got enough to share." 

He patted the cushion next to them, but Sansa shook her head. "No thank you, I really shouldn't—" 

"Don't be a downer." The grip on Sansa's wrist tightened, so cold it froze her bones in place. The wight fumbled through the pockets of his tattered black jeans and extracted a vial of milk-white liquid. "How about this? A good time, guaranteed." 

All the color left Sansa's face, until she resembled what she knew was in the vial: _poppymilk._ She was at a party where people were taking poppymilk, and not because a maester told them. For _fun_. But it wasn't fun, it was a sin. It would rot your mind. It would take over your mind, until all you wanted to do was drink poppymilk. Then you would die, mad as a hatter. 

"What's that look about?" the wight asked. "No need to be afraid, pretty one. Your boyfriend's no stranger to milk. He won't mind if you have a sip or two. Or three." 

Cracked blue lips pulled up around a toothless smile. Sansa tried to get her wrist back, mead sloshing as she struggled. _He's not my boyfriend_ , she thought. _He's my sweetling_. _And he doesn't drink milk._ But the wight didn't get to know all that. The wight got the loudest, sharpest, "Let me go, now," that Sansa could manage. 

"Suit yourself," he said. But when he released her, Sansa went flying back against the wall, spine cracking against the thin lip of a credenza. Her glass slipped straight from her hand and shattered into dozens of fizzing and glittering pieces on the floorboards. Sansa clasped a hand over her mouth to keep a whimper from falling out, but no one batted an eye. 

They may as well have been dead. 

So Sansa fled, stumbling over a wrinkle in the rug and only finding balance when her hands locked around the knob of the door that would take her to Sandor. She threw it open, and squinted through the smoke. 

_Sandor._

He was there in the same old armchair, and his eyes immediately found hers. Sansa wanted to go to him, really, but she could only shiver. The wight's touch lingered on her skin like millions of tiny icicles, poking holes in every pore. Sansa summoned Sandor the only way she could think: a hand wrapped tightly around her locket. 

Sandor stood. He clapped Darkstar’s shoulder, gestured, whispered, pulled him up. Darkstar surrendered his leather jacket to Sandor’s outstretched palm, and both of them came to Sansa’s side. 

Sandor put her in the jacket, gave her nice words and kisses to her crown. They left through the same door, and Sansa braced for the worst. But when they crossed the threshold, there was nothing. The room was empty. No punch, no people, and certainly no wights. 

Everyone was gone. 

Sansa shuddered and shrunk into Sandor. 

_I must have gotten lost._

Sandor held her so close she was almost able to forget. She had drunk too much mead, and she was still under the influence of her moon. Besides, there were much better things to think about than wights and witches. 

They still had a game to play back home.

Sansa's game.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Up next is Chapter Nine: Monarch and Monster. Pure smut, with a tender cherry on top. It's delectable. 
> 
> 'Til then.


	9. Monarch and Monster

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Princess Sansa clashes with Ser Clegane.
> 
> Chapter track: [Chee - Vultures](https://youtu.be/s8uTcTM4Pxg)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh gosh, what to say? This chapter is very special to me. If I could keep it to myself, honestly, I might. Four months after drafting, it still packs an emotional punch when I reread. Sorry to be so corny, lol. But my vision really came to fruition in this one, and it encapsulates so much of what I love about SanSan. 
> 
> I'd like to give a content warning because this chapter does contain consensual nonconsensual roleplay as well as blood in a sexual context. That said, we'll also have extensive aftercare. 
> 
> If you're here, and you're down, this is gonna be our special secret. A lil hidden gem. 
> 
> Enjoy 🌟

Sansa shifted her wrists against the soft binds of silk rope. Tighter knots this time. Less forgiving. The rope went up from her wrists to the rafters, around a thick oaken beam, worn from age. With each wiggle, dust spilled down like grey snow and tickled Sansa's eyelashes. It was probably piling up in her hair, too. 

Sandor had already taken out her plaits. "Down," he had said, in his _I'm in charge_ voice. He put her in a new nightgown, knee-length white silk with long billowy sleeves and crisscrossing ribbons at the neck. Then he tied her up. "Higher," Sansa told him, and again, "Higher," until she balanced on the balls of her feet. Sandor lingered a minute, most likely for Sansa to tell him it was too much. She told him to leave instead. 

So now she waited. A hot, dusty, sticky waiting. 

This game had taken a whole week of convincing. Sansa had dreamed it up the very day after she discovered Sandor's Kingsforce armor: a knight and his princess. It was perfect. 

But Sandor had grumbled about it. "I don't know, little bird," he would say. "I'm no knight in shining armor." He didn't understand though. That's not what Sansa wanted either, not in bed. He was her knight in shining armor any old day of the week, in any grubby band t-shirt. Sansa wanted something special. 

"I don't want you to rescue me," she had to explain on the phone, so late at night it was already a light purple morning. "I want you to take me." 

"Take you where?" 

"Not _where_ ," Sansa corrected. "I want you to take me—” she threw many long glances around the abandoned common room “—by _force_." 

Sandor was quiet for an eternity. He breathed heavy, even though he wasn't smoking. 

"I won't play nice," he answered at last. 

"I won't either," was Sansa's reply. 

So now she was here, an imprisoned princess, strung up from the ceiling. The prince was cruel. He didn't love her, and the evil queen loved her even less. They kept Sansa in the tallest tower, away from her family, all alone except for the maids that brought her supper. 

And the knights. The whitecloaks he would send to beat her, whenever he was feeling particularly roth. 

So Sansa spent all her time waiting. 

Waiting for the worst. 

The worst came well after dark, so late that when the door creaked open, Sansa knew it wouldn't be another cold bowl of porridge. It was the biggest knight on the Kingsguard, the scariest knight, with half his face a burnt black mess. His helmet spared Sansa the sight of it, but she didn't look at him for long. 

One glimpse of the Hound had the princess's heart pounding where it shouldn't, thighs sticky where they should be dry. In his full suit of armor he was as big and golden as the sun, his cloak a white ray of light fixed to two stag-stamped rondels. He was as dangerous as the sun, too. Too close and he would light Sansa ablaze. 

"You," she whispered as the Hound's immense gravity drew near. She talked to her feet, toes pink from the exertion of staying upright. When two massive sabatons landed across from them, she lost her footing and swayed. 

"Me," the Hound breathed down. He smelled like ale. He only drank ale as black as his ruined skin. Sansa caught a splintered crevice in the floorboards and crept back on pointed toes.

"Did the prince send you to hurt me?" 

"Might be. Might be I came to see your pretty face." 

A massive gauntlet went for Sansa's cheek, and she pulled herself just out of reach. That hand could hurt. It could mash her jaw to paste. It turned to a fist instead, and dropped beside a metal-clad thigh. 

"So that's how it's going to be." 

Sansa said nothing. She decided she was done talking to the Hound. Talking to him was another thing that could get her in trouble. He liked her words. They fed the fire that made him run so hot.

The quiet was supposed to make him leave, but instead the gauntlet invaded again. Sansa scrambled back, until her spine collided with cold stone. Then she had nowhere to go, except into the Hound's unyielding touch. Steel fingers picked up the ribbons at her chest and tugged them loose. Fresh air slipped beneath her silks and two hard points poked through. 

The Hound noticed, of course. He traced over a nipple, softly at first, but then he bore into it with the sharp end of a scaled fingertip. Sansa gasped, so he dug in deeper. She scolded herself for being so stupid—she shouldn't talk, and she shouldn't make noises either. So as the gauntlet got bolder, warm metal swallowing up an entire silk-swathed breast, Sansa bit her lip. She stitched herself together so well that not a single sound fell out. 

The Hound heaved a sigh. 

"You're awfully quiet, little princess. And you won't look at me. Why won't you look at me?" 

The hand on her breast curled tighter, steel joints pinching skin and silk alike. "Look at me," the Hound rasped, but Sansa closed her eyes instead. A metallic squeak sounded out—a visor lifting. "Look at me."

Sansa refused with silence, but the gauntlet hated that. It gripped her fiercely enough to make her breast burst to bloody pulp, so she let go of her lip and cried out, pushing herself against the wall as if she could turn to smoke and slip through stone.

"Don't make me repeat myself, girl." 

Another gauntlet landed on her chest, and there was another squeeze far more powerful than the first. Fire bloomed in both her breasts. Fire fell down her with each of the Hound's ragged breaths. The princess hid from the flame with eyes shut so tightly stars danced in the darkness below. 

She wanted the heat to go away, but she was a silly girl. She chose words that would give her more. 

"You're awful." 

Metal crunched, sunk deeper into her softness. "What did you just say?" 

"I said, _you're_ _awful_." 

The gauntlets went away in a flash, steel clinked against steel, and something heavy clattered to the floor. Sansa's thighs tensed together— _the helmet_. Then a hand came for her chin. The scales on the Hound's fingers pinched worse with no silk barrier. His breath was much smellier with no visor in the way. 

"Look at me," he growled a third time, flecks of spit dotting her forehead. Then, a roar, " _Look at me!_ " 

The gauntlet clamped hard enough to bend bone, and Sansa's eyes flew open. A dark monster stared back, a nightmare creature from some horrible fairy tale. And Sansa was just a princess. She wasn't used to seeing men with half-melted faces, faces that cracked and weeped crimson, sparsely concealed by lank, black hair. His bones made cruel angles at his brow, cheek, and jaw. His grey eyes stung. 

He was scary, and the princess wanted him gone. 

Without words or noises, there was only one choice. 

It wasn't ladylike, but the Hound wasn't being honorable. So Sansa took in her cheeks and spit. She spit all over that scary face. It withdrew, but only long enough for the Hound to smear the mess off with a grunt. He came back, closer, eyes aflame. 

His crooked nose fell onto hers and he started making weird noises with it. Animal noises. He grunted, and grunted, and twisted his already twisted cheeks around. Two sharp fingers hooked beneath Sansa's tongue and pried down her jaw. _No_ , she thought. _Oh, no, no, no._

But it was far too late. 

The Hound opened up. A huge, sticky mass plopped inside Sansa's mouth, so huge it filled her up and seeped from the corners of her lips. She tried to whimper but gagged instead, stickiness clogging up her windpipe. 

"Swallow," the Hound barked. He forced his sour breath straight up Sansa's nose. "Good little princesses swallow." 

She _was_ a good little princess, so she had to do it. The gross glob of spit slunk down her throat like warm, salted gelatin. She hated it. She hated it so much her knees quivered, and a trail of her own water slid out from between her legs. 

She hated it. Princesses _hate_ spit. 

To make extra sure the Hound knew how much Sansa hated it, she frowned. 

The Hound grinned. He had sharp white teeth. Dangerous teeth. "That's right," he snarled. "You're going to look at me when I tell you to, aren't you?" 

Sansa nodded. 

"Good." Finally, his face left. But his gauntlets got greedy again. The Hound was a wild beast, so all it took was one swipe of his steel paw to rip Sansa's gown straight down to her belly button, exposing a bouquet of red marks that fanned out on her breasts like angry petals. She whimpered, and warm steel came for her in a heartbeat. 

"You have such pretty teats," the Hound growled. "Small ones. New ones." He brushed over Sansa's hardened nipples and prodded the tender marks of his making. "You're pretty all over." His hand roamed lower, down her belly, until his fingers tangled in her maidenhair. 

Sansa gasped and stuck her legs together with all her might. "Please, Ser," she whined. "Not there. I'm a maiden." 

"Ser, is it? Are we going to use our manners again?" 

He came one step closer. His feet landed on either side of hers, and his shadow fell on her like a dark cloak. "Answer me, girl," he said. He picked up her hem, then slid it up over her hips. A plated palm found rest over her maidenhair. _A threat._

Sansa's silence lured in the heat. Two fingers slipped between her thighs and parted her petals, and then the Hound learned her shame. Steel glided over her wetness. It traced over her aching bud and rosy center, and lingered there. 

"No," she whispered. The princess didn't want that. Nothing was supposed to go there. 

"No, _Ser_." 

The Hound shoved his finger inside her, and its stiff scales tore tender flesh like honed flame. "Ouch," Sansa whined. Maidens didn't know such fire. So she dropped her lip, lower than it had ever gone before, and made it tremble for added effect. She put a pool of water in her eyes.

The Hound swam there, caught. 

" _You're hurting me_ ," Sansa wailed. 

His nostrils flared and twitched. Hollow cheeks clenched. Grey eyes flashed so brightly Sansa almost went blind. 

And then, flame. 

Another finger shot inside her flower with force enough to lift her toes from the ground, and that wasn't the end of it. He withdrew, metal ridges rippling along her walls, and he thrust again. This thrust had Sansa bouncing on her rope, so the Hound braced her against the wall with a gauntlet flat on her collarbones. 

The poor princess's toes dangled as he rammed his steel hand inside her softness. She hated this too. She clamped her thighs around his rigid wrist. She constricted around his fingers, because surely that would push them out. Surely it wouldn't stoke the sticky heat that collected deep inside her. When Sansa moaned, the Hound took his warmth away. His dewy fingers ran up from her maidenhair along her belly, but he left behind more than dew. 

A redness. 

_Blood._

Sansa mewled—he had torn her apart, savaged her flesh to ribbons. Even worse, he still wanted more of her. That hungry hand went back up to her breasts and got so bold as to steal a lock of her hair. 

“You’re not a knight,” Sansa told him. “You’re a monster.” 

The snarl that spilled out of him proved the princess's point. “That’s no way for a maiden to talk,” he rasped. 

“Why does it matter? You’re going to take me anyway.” 

“Why?” He slammed an armored knee between Sansa’s legs. It nestled into her bud and ignited her pulse. Then his face dropped low enough for inky black hair to blot out the lamplight—a grim sunset. His fangs lit up her night. 

"I'll tell you why, little princess." He twirled the end of a curl around a golden finger, newly cracked with crimson. "You're like a butterfly—soft, colorful, pretty." 

The finger snuck up her neck and pressed its point beneath her chin. "But you're weak," he breathed. His fangs advanced on her. "Ephemeral." Charred lips pushed into hers, and barely retreated. "Small. So, so small. And do you know what I am?" 

Sansa shook her head. The finger on her chin turned to an entire hand, a steel spider that dragged down her jaw. Into her gaping mouth, the Hound whispered, "Big." 

With that, he pushed off, sending Sansa to swing limply from her oaken beam. He put his back to her and buckles clinked. Before Sansa even had time to regain her footing, he was back, and he brought something much worse. Something the princess had never seen. 

_A man’s staff._

A different monster. Bright red, as big as her forearm, and alive with blood. It hunted for the princess's shameful pulse. It prowled between her petals, soaking up blood and dew. That creature shouldn’t go inside, and it simply _couldn’t_. There was no way something so large would fit inside an undefiled maiden. 

But she had already been defiled. The flaky brown trail on her belly was proof of that. 

She was _ruined_. 

Tears welled in the princess’s eyes. The Hound was right. She was a monarch, pinned in a glass case by a monster. This was the worst thing that could happen to a girl of gentle birth. She needed the monster to know that too, so she sniffed and snivelled, and made her jaw quake. The Hound looked up and gave a feral grin. 

“Tears won’t spare your maidenhead,” he hissed. Sansa shook her head, refusing to give him words. She gave him a tear instead, which he caught on the steely pad of his thumb. He pushed the salty droplet between Sansa’s lips and drew close. “They’ll only make you wetter.” 

Two pulses throbbed together. “Please,” Sansa begged, squishing that horrible monster between her legs. “Please, Ser.” 

“Please what?” 

“Please be gentle. I beg of you.” 

The Hound pounced. He spun Sansa around and shoved her chest-first against the wall with his plated fingers sunk into her neck. The other gauntlet gripped her hair in one commanding handful and yanked to force her eye back to him. 

He pressed his nose to hers and growled, “ _No._ ”

The monster plunged inside her to the root, and Sansa screamed. She had to. She was so small inside, an unfurled blossom. She wasn’t suited to be torn apart by a red-hot rod of iron. Her sounds were fuel though, food for a ravenous beast. She delivered a whole banquet, crying out every time her belly was split. 

It _was_ split, absolutely broken in two. Her center ached like smith’s forge, a churning and bubbling of things once solid. The molten drippings oozed out of her and cast her legs. They were bright crimson. The princess didn't want to look, but the monster had her hair. He forced her eyes down so she could see it: a bloodied man's staff, lancing her flower until it disappeared into her tummy, then resurfacing, coated in clumps of flesh. 

The Hound was turning her inside out. 

He was crushing her, a sweet butterfly. 

Steel-plated thighs crashed against hers. Heavy breastplate mashed into her back, grinding her breasts into unforgiving stone. The cold friction scorched her nipples and rubbed them raw. Her bound fists slid feebly along the wall with each stab. She melted, faster. She was a monarch under a mountain, a new mountain, sheets of callous rock sprouted fresh from the earth's crust, an angry stone goliath come to swallow her whole.

The gauntlet on her scalp would drag her to white liquid depths of hell. 

The princess wept. She had screamed so much that tears were inevitable. But the tears only made her wetter. They made the Hound grunt and find his way deeper into the forge. They brought the weight of the mountain closer, bending her ribs and wringing the very air from her lungs. 

“Cry all you want, little princess,” the Hound rasped down to the crown of her head. “No one will come. You’re mine.” 

“You’re a monster,” Sansa cried. 

“What kind of monster?” 

Sansa held her tongue, so the Hound stopped moving. He left himself buried to the hilt inside of her. When he looked down on Sansa, she shut her eyes. “A big one,” she said. 

“A big one,” the Hound echoed. “What else?” 

“Smelly,” Sansa replied. And then, in the tiniest voice, “Scary.” 

The beast hidden inside her reared its head. The Hound groaned, but it came out as a snarl. “I’m scary, is it? What’s so scary about me?” 

Sansa drew her face in as tightly as she could, a reckless plea. She earned flame across her scalp from a tug fierce enough for her eyes to fly open. The Hound thrust his face into hers, his burns smoldering. “Speak, girl,” he spat. 

“S-scars,” was all Sansa could get out. The princess couldn’t stand the sight of his mangled flesh, because she didn’t know that the worst monsters were the pretty ones. Her hands were bound, so she couldn’t reach out. She couldn’t touch his black cheek, and learn the light hidden in his shadow. 

So she furrowed her brow, and she frowned. She was afraid. 

And the Hound—he was _furious_. 

He stabbed straight through Sansa, maybe all the way to her ribs. They cracked into stone, cushioned by her heaving lungs and pounding heart. “I’ll tell you something, sweet little princess,” the Hound said. His hand left her hair and snaked between the wall and her belly. “This monster has half a mind to put his ugly seed inside of you. Would you like that?”

The grip on her neck tightened. He gave it a shake. “I said, would you like that? Do you want me to put a bastard in your pretty belly? A little monster to take to court?” 

When the steel dug just deep enough into her windpipe, Sansa answered, “No, Ser.” The Hound grunted, then put a wet kiss on her cheek that was mostly teeth. When his mouth moved over hers, she whispered into it, “I want you to take me away.” 

He froze there. His rough lips took in Sansa’s sweet breath and replaced it with his bitterness. “What did you say?” 

“Take me away,” Sansa repeated. “I don’t want to bring our bastard to court. I’d rather run away.” 

Her punishment was his eyes. He cut into her for one long minute, but this time, his face was the unsteady one. His lips quivered so badly it shook his entire jaw. He couldn’t even clench it to stillness. 

The princess wasn’t supposed to want rescue, not from the prince’s dog. 

But this wasn’t rescue. 

It was something much worse, something that wasn’t written into songs, not yet. 

_The Princess and the Monster_. 

When the Hound straightened, when he released his hold on her throat, and reached back to the hilt of the golden greatsword strapped between two broad shoulders, Sansa knew: she would be singing that song right back to him. 

“Tell me again, little princess. Tell me what you want.”

He didn’t even need to unsheathe his blade. His stench fell out from his armpit over Sansa’s face, gross and warm enough for her to reply, “I want you to take me away from here. Away from the prince. You can spill your seed inside me, please, just take me away.” 

“I don’t want your permission, girl,” he rasped. Hard fingers sunk into her overstuffed belly. “I want you to beg for it.” 

Oh, it was so wrong. So, incredibly wrong. It wasn’t supposed to go like this at all. But the princess had invited the monster in. Every word, every whimper, every tear. They all lead to this—her body, ablaze. Split up from the spine, her breasts two sore burdens. What else did she expect? When a big scary dog mounted her, the result was obvious. 

He was going to plant a bastard. _A mongrel_. 

“Please, Ser,” she began, her voice a tremor. “Please take me away."

“And?” 

“Put your seed in me. Put your bastard in me, Ser, _please_.” 

The weight of the sun fell down on her. At her back, at her sides, atop her head: flame. White flame. Rigid flame. Sheets of gold wrapped around her like a heavy metal cloak and drove her into stone. The fire flared up into her belly to her heart. Molten ore throbbed in her veins. 

She wasn’t a butterfly crushed by a mountain. 

She was a butterfly who had flown directly into the sun. 

The princess welcomed every lick of heat. She let that pulsating rod of iron invade her center. She let it boil up her insides to smelted stew. And now, it would turn her inside out. She would surrender into the sun. 

“Please, Ser,” came her last words as a monarch, wispy, fluttering things. “I want your seed inside of me. I want to have your baby.” 

“I’ll do that for you, little bird,” the Hound grunted into her hair. He added a few kisses. They were too soft. “I’ll give you a pretty baby, I promise. Not a monster. Not like me.” 

But after his last strokes, after Sansa collapsed on her favorite beast, he didn’t give her what she asked for so nicely. He went away. 

He left her empty. 

Instead of filling up her belly, his stickiness landed on her back. A warm disappointment. He fixed himself up with the click of a few buckles, and Sansa sagged in her knots. Her toes taught her of her own weight. She was heavy. 

She was empty. 

Rough wool soaked the sad seed from her silks. With one expert swish of a golden blade between her wrists, Sansa was free. Free to crumple to the floor, where she belonged. But a sturdy arm caught her waist. “Easy, little bird. Easy.” 

Sandor came to the floor with her. He took her into his steel-encased lap. He covered her tattered scraps with his cloak, his long ray of light. Sansa leaned on his breastplate, but she couldn’t feel his heartbeat. She couldn’t reach his weirwood pendant, wherever it was buried. 

“You didn’t do it,” Sansa whispered, her breath a fog on Sandor’s steel. Her eyes were wet. She raised them up, so Sandor could see too. After all, he was the one who had put the water there. But he shook his head at her. “No,” he told her. And again, harsher, “No. I’m not playing, little bird. You don’t want that.” 

Sansa frowned. It was only a game. Right. That was the princess’s song, not hers. 

It was only a game. 

Still, Sansa’s pout didn’t go away, even after Sandor got her to stand a good ten minutes later. She pouted much harder when he herded her into the bathroom, and she got a horrifying look at her reflection in Sandor’s grimy mirror. 

Her face was a disaster. _She_ was the monster. Eyes puffed to twice their usual size, ugly black streaks running down her cheeks. Worst of all was the brownish-red smear on her jaw. 

Moonblood. 

She glanced between her thighs and made a noise like a wounded kitten. “Oh, sweet little bird,” Sandor said. He scooped her up and helped her into the tub. “You’re alright. I’ll wash it all off for you. Do you hear me?” 

Sansa was still doing a great job of frowning, but she nodded. Sandor would clean up his mess. He always did. 

He gave her forehead a really long kiss before leaving to take off his armor. Sansa settled into her bath, and by the time steamy water filled the tub to the brim, Sandor was back. No more Ser Clegane. He was just Sandor, wearing a pair of yellow and black flannel shorts, snug on his legs and backside. Snug on _him_. In truth, Sansa didn’t even know he owned any underwear, but the sight was quite the treat. 

She got to look at his big beautiful muscles and all his tattoos while he knelt by her side and scrubbed her to sparkling. He talked to her while he worked, gentle things. “Let's get under your wings, little bird. And now your pretty legs, and down to your feet.” After he rinsed the soap from her toes, he started putting kisses all over them. Unfortunately, that got a giggle out of Sansa, so he escalated to nibbles. When he stuck his whole face on the underside of her foot and started rubbing his scruff all over it, Sansa giggled and thrashed so fiercely she nearly slammed her heel straight into his jaw. 

They both laughed it off, and after that, Sansa remembered how to smile again. She smiled so wide when Sandor reached into the cupboard above the sink and pulled out shampoo and conditioner. The kind she had requested, or rather, the kind she had berated Sandor for not having in the first place. He washed her hair. He massaged her tender scalp with strong hands, until no trace of hurt remained. 

After drying her off and combing her curls, he carried her to bed. He put ointment and a lot of kisses on the redness around her wrists and breasts. He bundled her up in her blanket, and gave her an illustrated copy of _The Loves of Queen Nymeria_ to keep her busy while he went off to the kitchen. 

The best part was when he came back. He brought a plate with four small cakes on it, and a mug with whipped cream and a bright red cherry sticking up from its brim. 

“What is it?” Sansa asked, when Sandor settled next to her in bed. 

“Something I made up. Let's call it sweetmilk.” 

He held the mug up to her lips, and gave it a little tip, enough for one warm mouthful. A sweet mouthful. “Honey,” Sansa smiled. 

“Aye,” he replied. “A little cardamom, too. Just a pinch.” 

The cakes were lemon cakes, which was a true delight. Sansa didn’t share a single bite with Sandor, but he didn’t mind. He said he already ate an entire leftover ribeye he had in the fridge. He didn’t need any of that sugary shit. Food for _little birds_. 

That turned Sansa into an annoyed bird. She picked up a fingerful of whipped cream and smeared it onto Sandor’s right cheek. She grinned, and he gave her his angry wolf eyes. “Little bird,” he scolded. “You better clean that up.” 

Sansa waited long enough to get a growl out of him, then she leaned over and licked his cheek clean. He had tricked her, though. Once she was close, he plucked by her by the waist and set her on top of him, barely managing to get the cup out of her hands before it spilled all over the covers. 

But then she was all his. They got to kiss for a very long time. Ambling kisses, with no purpose whatsoever. Kisses for the sake of kissing. So Sansa could chart every corner of Sandor’s mouth, and then explore his face. She showered him with kisses on his scarred side, in case he still remembered the mean little princess. 

“You’re so handsome,” she told him, so many times she lost count. “You’re the most handsome man in the whole world. Did you know that?” 

He told her he liked to be reminded, so like a good little bird, she did just that. "You're so nice, and sweet, and smart, and talented, and funny," she would say, delivering a kiss with each word. "And very, very, _very_ handsome." Her lips tingled by the time she ran them all over his dark skin, and the one bright patch of bone. She kissed that spot a lot. Her favorite spot, she decided. 

The kissing faded to cuddles. Sansa dropped onto his chest and curled up with their legs intertwined. Strong arms held her close. She kept one ruby in her palm, and another pulsed just beneath her head. Its steady rhythm lulled her into the sweetest sleep. 

Sadly, Sandor’s sleep wasn’t as sweet. In the deep of night, he was restless again, so restless he threw Sansa off of him and woke her up. 

“Sandor?” she whispered, groggy. “Sweetling, what’s the matter?” 

She reached for his shoulder to pull him back to her, but he called out, “Leave me alone. Gods, please, leave me alone. Leave me alone. Let me go. Let me go.” Then he twisted away and began to shiver. 

Surely his words weren’t for Sansa, so she pulled onto her knees and scooted closer. “It’s a nightmare, sweetling,” she soothed. “It’s not real.” 

She went for his shoulder again, but his hand clamped her wrist. She winced, still sore from the rope, then his eyes shot open. Their sharpness pinned her in place. 

“You’re not real,” he hissed. 

Sansa whimpered, and one blink later, Sandor’s eyes were soft starlight. He looked from Sansa’s face to her wrist, then let her go. “Little bird?” 

He pushed himself up. “What happened?” 

“A nightmare,” Sansa whispered. 

“Fuck,” Sandor grumbled. He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands, then tugged his hair over his scars. "I get them all the time. Are you good?” 

Sansa didn’t want to lie, but she couldn’t tell the truth either. “I just want you to hold me,” she replied, which seemed like a fair compromise. Sandor drew her into her armpit, so she could rest on her favorite pillow and sink into his atmosphere. She groped for the weirwood at his neck. 

_I’m real_ , she told the gods. _I’m here. I’m real._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading 💗 deeply, from the bottom of my heart, I hope you enjoyed. She's yours now. Up next is Chapter Ten: Just A Game. What if we added a lil drama to this story? Because it's happening. 
> 
> 'Til then!


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